Marshaling Enough Empathy
by freshouttaideas
Summary: A mutilated body is found by Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson in a cave in Kentucky, the latest victim of a serial killer hunted by the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit. Will Graham works to solve the puzzle left by the psychopath and the puzzle that is the Lexington Marshals' resident sniper. (slash)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I own nothing (except my computer and an internet account). But seriously, I own nothing by F/X or Elmore Leonard or NBC or Thomas Harris; none of this will ever make me a penny. It's all for fun and on a dare, or should I say a challenge, from _hallonim _who insists on challenging. And I can't help it - I have to take it up and run with it. (Besides, the dare came with a nice cover image. Thank you, hallonim for that.)

This story is set after the incarceration of Hannibal Lecter, so post Season 2 of Hannibal (I know, doesn't exist yet) and can be set anywhere in the Justified timeline. This is a complete digression from my other Tim Gutterson fanfic. I hope it entertains. Reviews are lovely and welcome but never necessary; PM if you feel inclined; constructive criticism is always appreciated if sent to improve and with good intent. I apologize in advance for any errors about firearms or chess or life in general.

* * *

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter One**

"Clear the scene, everyone!" The man spoke with the assurance of authority, a general to his troops, clapped his hands impatiently when the minions around him didn't hop-to fast enough. "Let's go, people. Outside!"

Tim Gutterson stayed put. Something in the tone stiffened every vertebra along his back. Defiant, he slipped a step or two into the shadows.

"Come on, let's move it!" The voice boomed again, echoed back into the cave and around the walls, crashing and rebounding, multiplying aggressively.

Tim crossed his arms, imagined the voice as something tangible, elastic, imagined it bouncing off the hard surfaces then hitting the thick summer at the mouth of the cave where the rocks surrendered to living things and where a solid wall of Kentucky July heat swallowed any insignificant sounds like generals' orders. He turned his head to the entrance hoping to see the voice defeated. _As if,_ he thought, tired, and eyed the sunlight hungrily.

Ten hours of waiting at a crime scene and the body wasn't getting any fresher smelling. He wanted to be out of here, out there where the sunlight beckoned, lulled stupid and oblivious by the heat, buffered from the aggressive scent of decay and the sounds of business as usual by the fragrance of green breathing and the hush of trees and wind tussling. He wanted to escape the voice and the cave and what it entombed, but he stayed, as much to buck authority and the memories of offhand and unthinking orders as to pet his curiosity. He leaned carelessly against the cold surface of the rock wall halfway back in the shadows behind the directed lights, silent, watching, faking indifference and knowing he was faking it.

_Self-awareness is a bitch,_ he thought, irritable. He was just old enough and jaded enough to feel half ashamed of his immature rebel self. But he stayed put anyway.

The general turned in a circle checking for stragglers, confirming his power, arrogant eyes sliding past where Tim stood unseen, then he stepped over and spoke to the lone and miserable-looking FBI agent left behind.

"Will." A utilitarian greeting – familiarity, business. "It looks like him, doesn't it?" he spoke with confidence but deferential. He respected this minion.

The miserable man nodded affirmation. "It's him."

"You're sure?"

A flippant half a shrug in reply skipped over top of the brutal depths of the horror in front of them, made the minion interesting not just miserable. A half a smile followed the half-shrug and Tim thought it had to work hard to get there being so at odds with the man's dejected expression.

"Well, as sure as I can be, Jack. I've only been here five minutes. It's the same game, anyway. You didn't release any of that information to the press, did you?"

The general pressed his lips together, shook his head. He was unsatisfied with the response but he didn't appear to be the type of man who was ever satisfied; he said, "I'll leave you to it. Call us when you're ready." He ran his eyes once more over the scene, turned abruptly and walked out.

This wasn't like any forensics procedure that Tim had ever heard of, and he knew people in the FBI and the CIA and Lexington homicide. Leaving a man alone at a crime scene like this didn't seem useful, only cruel. Tim burned holes into the general's back watching him retreat to the cave entrance, flicked his gaze quickly then to the man – Mr. Misery, Tim named him – sentenced to remain behind, watched him for a reaction to being abandoned at the house of horrors.

Mr. Misery hadn't stopped staring at the body. A moment passed then he seemed to come to himself suddenly, nervous to be himself, twitched a glance behind him to the mouth of the cave, too late for any last minute human contact. He took a deep shuddering breath and regretted it almost immediately, gagging at the aggressive odor of rotting flesh. He brought his hand up to cover his nose and mouth and walked quickly to the entrance for fresher air, composed himself then squared his shoulders and approached the display again.

He studied the body, and Tim studied it with him though he'd stared at it long enough before the locals and the coroner and then the Feds had arrived. It was neatly flayed head to toe, sitting on a chair at a table, posed, a chessboard laid out to play, in play actually, some pieces moved, the game already started in more ways than one. Through the brief conversation between the Feds, Tim gleaned one fact – this wasn't the first body. They were on the trail of a serial killer.

The FBI's investigator rubbed his hands over his face and when he pulled them away his eyes were closed then open suddenly. He seemed to fade away then, or maybe he pushed himself aside, the nervousness gone as he transformed, hardened. He walked to the table, a gloved hand reaching out, and set the chess pieces back to their starting squares. One was missing – Tim had looked for it after he'd called in the homicide – but Mr. Misery pretended it was there and placed it solemnly as well. He moved a white pawn first, deliberately, then a black to counter, another, another, finishing finally with the move of a white piece, a knight, set it down so slowly it appeared as if he were unsure where it went but he placed it back exactly where it had been. Tim remembered – remembered every detail.

"You're so stupid," Misery whispered when the knight was positioned.

Tim stiffened, thought he'd been found out, but the investigator never looked his way and Tim realized that he was speaking to the victim not to him.

"You don't see my play, do you?" the man continued, walking around behind the chair to view the board from the other side. "You should've moved your queen," disdain, anger, a freezing tone that brought the temperature in the cave down another degree or two. "You're an idiot. How do you expect to survive in this world? You're a fraud. They'll see underneath it all. They'll skin you alive. Do you want me to demonstrate?" He acted out pulling a knife. "The victim is alive when I begin. He will suffer for his failure. He will feel _everything._ This is my design."

_This is my design._ The words sat threateningly in the chill and motionless air. Tim was so lost in the pantomime that he forgot to shift his gaze – remainders of a soldier's superstition, a hunter's notion that prey can feel eyes on them. It was a habit he would never shake off, burned into his instincts, a part of the Army Ranger still living in him. He looked quickly away.

"Who's there?" nervousness back in the tone. "Who's there? Show yourself, please."

Maybe not a superstition.

The investigator pulled a small penlight from his pocket and started peering into the recesses of the cave, his hand going for his sidearm.

"It's alright," Tim said, letting his voice give him away and a thin cut of light snapped over to where he was leaning. He pushed off the wall and walked into the glare. "I'm Deputy Gutterson with the Marshals Office." He tipped the star on his belt to bring it to the man's attention. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Shaken, flustered, Misery turned away and wouldn't look at the Marshal directly.

"You're the one that found him?" His voice didn't carry the same assurance as the general's. It questioned itself, every word.

"That's right."

A quick nod, skirting eyes, "You're not supposed to be in here."

"Neither's he." Tim gestured at the body. "You gonna kick us both out?"

A huff, amused, "Yeah, well, I don't think _he _was allowed to say no to the invitation to stay. And you, I believe, weren't allowed to say no to the invitation to leave."

A grin for the clever parallel. "I tend to ignore invitations."

Misery looked directly at Tim then, a short laugh, humorless. "A bit antisocial, are we?" He relaxed a little. "I understand that preference." Back to the scene. "Do you play chess, Deputy?"

Tim shook his head, figured the man already had an answer formed, had probably already fit him into a stereotype so it didn't really matter how he replied. "I'm a real-time player," he joked.

"Ah," another quick nod, "Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"Afghanistan." Tim was surprised into answering – the man was quick at hearing what was unspoken.

"Explains why you don't have trouble looking." Misery delivered his statement with force, anger.

Tim wanted to be offended but the anger seemed self-directed so he let the comment pass, accepted it at face value. They were left then in silence with the game's loser, wondering at the insanity of men. It felt oddly comfortable, the quiet companionship, something Tim had missed since giving up the Army, a desperate and meager linking of empathy in a world of cruelty and chaos.

The shared and short peace was broken when the general and his voice returned in force. "What are you doing in here?" He walked over aggressively, up close and in Tim's face.

"Jack," the other man's hand came out, calming, smoothing, "it's okay. I…I called him in. This is the Marshal that found the body. Uh, Deputy…" He looked up at Tim, a question.

"Gutterson," Tim filled in, "Deputy Gutterson."

"I needed to know if any of the pieces had been disturbed. I had to be sure."

Jack, the General, studied Tim's face carefully when he asked, "Did you move the pieces, Deputy? Any of them?"

"Nope."

"It would be a temptation, a seemingly harmless thing to do – curiosity. Most people can't help touching. It wouldn't be like you were really disturbing a crime scene if you put them back, right?"

Tim didn't appreciate the suggestion that he didn't know how to do his job, the general speaking at him like he was a fifth-grader. "There were six pieces moved on the white side – three pawns, the queen's rook and bishop, the queen; five on the black side – again three pawns, king's knight and rook. The black queen is missing and no, it's not in my pocket. Did you want to know which squares they're on?"

The general's grin brought to mind a horror movie and Tim worried that maybe he didn't have enough experience with this man to be properly afraid but he returned the grin anyway, fatigue making him reckless.

"So you play chess, Deputy Gutterson?"

"Do I look like I play chess?"

"But clearly you're familiar with the game."

Tim spoke in a near monotone, "It's 1500 years old. You'd have to be sleeping through life to miss it. I read once – and yeah, I know how to read – that in India where chess originated, the rooks were chariots and the bishops were elephants. Imagine warfare with elephants. The logistics of carrying that much food around with you. And I thought today's technical warfare was a bitch for maintenance." A roll of the eyes.

The general didn't look amused. "Elephants. It does stretch the imagination."

Neither man had moved since the confrontation began, toe to toe. Tim refused to take a step back, even outranked. He had had drill sergeants spit in his face and not given them the satisfaction of blinking. He would make damn sure this general couldn't find any buttons to push.

And maybe the general realized it. He ended the conversation, took the step back. "This is Special Agent Will Graham. If he asks for your help, you will help him. Am I clear?"

"Yessir."

"Will, kick him out when you're done with him." He dismissed them both and headed back to the sunlight.

"Who's the asshole?" Tim asked.

"Uh," an awkward chuckle, "the _asshole_ is Special Agent Jack Crawford. He's the head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit at Quantico." Will looked directly at Tim briefly, piercing. "Elephants?" He shook his head. "Christ, you sure know how to…piss off the wrong guy."

"He pissed me off. I was just returning the favor."

Graham screwed his face into a disbelieving knot. "You should learn to pick your fights more carefully. Do you have any idea who he is?"

"The head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit at Quantico?"

"I wasn't testing your memory."

That made Tim laugh.

Will Graham looked _at_ him again, his gaze intense. "Do you…do you know who _I_ am?"

He seemed afraid of the answer, eyes dashing away as soon as he'd finished speaking, busying himself adjusting his glasses.

He must be _somebody_ to have asked like that, Tim thought, and felt for him; he understood not wanting to be known before having the chance to be known. _You must be the sniper._ How many times had he heard that, a chain around his neck and a heavy sign hung on it. _Sniper._ Albatross. _How many kills d'you have?_ If Tim were to tell someone he was a soldier or a cop or a US Marshal, the question would be 'you ever kill someone?' But when you're a sniper, you're already a killer. The question wouldn't be _if_ but _how many_, the same question they would ask a serial killer when they caught one – like the one responsible for skinning this poor asshole. Tim wondered what the difference was – the difference in how they saw him compared to this killer, the difference in how he saw himself compared to the killer. And that's when he stopped wondering.

_Do you know who I am?_ Will had asked. Tim decided to give him a fair answer. "Nope."

Will looked disproportionately relieved.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	2. Chapter 2

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Two**

"This isn't the first body."

"No, it's…the third." Will's eyes flitted around the cave, unwilling to land. "I'm sorry, what's your name again?"

"Tim Gutterson."

"Well, Deputy Gutterson, I guess I should ask – did you move a piece?"

"Covering your ass or mine?"

"My ass doesn't need covering. I pretty much get to do what I want." A considered pause. "Within reason."

"I didn't touch anything. Had a good look though."

Tim answered the question honestly and it must've shown somehow because Will seemed to believe him, nodded, a quick smile.

"And how did you happen to stumble on a crime scene like this in a cave off a back road in your line of work?"

"It was _in line_ with my work. I was tracking a missing person, someone in our care, WITSEC," Tim tilted his head slightly, made a wry face. "I have a feeling he wasn't much of a chess player."

"Who?"

"My federal witness."

"What makes you think..?"

"Best move would've been queen to queen's knight three." Tim gestured at the chess board. "Where is the queen? Any idea? Funny that it's the only piece missing."

"Likely rammed down his throat," Will replied absently. "I meant, what makes you think it's your guy? Hard to recognize without a face."

"Oh." Tim was stuck at the grisly reply to his question, glanced back at the body as if he might see the chess piece visible underneath the tissue on the neck. He finally shook his head to clear the image of the missing queen, said in response to Will's query, "Uh, his car was spotted abandoned on a back road just east of here. I tracked him and another man – two sets of footprints – to this cave."

"Ah. I see." Will turned to the body, squinted to blur the lines, soften the picture. "Do you want my job?" He looked back at Tim, hopeful, a bit despairing, teasing. "I think you're doing fine without me and…well, it's much nicer outside and apparently you play chess better than I do. So you were either lying to Jack Crawford just a minute ago or… Were you being a…a smartass?"

"Looks bad either way, doesn't it?" A wry smile.

"Yeah." Will chuckled. "It does." He searched the ceiling for something, apparently couldn't find it. "I hate caves," he said. "I need some fresh air."

* * *

Lexington wasn't too long a drive from the crime scene so it made sense that the FBI team would find themselves a better level of hotel in the city then suffer in a cheap roadside motel near Olive Hill or Morehead with thin mattresses and thinner walls, but it didn't make sense, except as an unfortunate coincidence, that they'd end up having a post-grisly-murder drink en masse at Tim's favorite bar. Yet there they were. And here he was trying desperately to find more shadow in an already gloomy establishment, not wanting company or conversation and kicking himself for not getting drunk alone in his apartment instead.

He glared at them, ordered another drink, glared some more, ordered another drink then quietly toasted their departure an hour later, watching relieved as they all headed for the door – all except Mr. Misery who waved them on and lingered, sipping a beer at an aggravatingly slow pace.

Tim reached behind the bar for a straw and toyed with the idea of blowing spitballs at the inconsiderate loiterer, started ripping the corners off a paper napkin, rolling and lining up tiny bits of ammunition to give his frustration an outlet. He was saved from himself when Will Graham gathered the money scattered around the table to pay the tab and made all the motions of leaving. But didn't. He stood facing the exit a moment, then looked over into the gloom and right at Tim, pulled his uncooperative mouth into a sort of smile and approached the bar.

"Is this your thing – hiding in the shadows?" he asked, flicked his eyes briefly at his own reflection in the mirror behind the row of bottles and then away and down, as if his image startled him, and over to the empty glass in front of Tim. "Their selection of single malt…sucks. No. That's…not fair. Their selection of single malt just doesn't exist. Clearly that's not the draw here. What is?"

Tim huffed impatiently, signaled the bartender. "A decent selection of bourbon. You're in Kentucky, dude."

"Well, recommend something then." Ignoring the brusque reply, Will waved at the liquor on display. "I've never tried bourbon and I need a good night's sleep. Cheap scotch isn't working for me so I'm game for something new."

Tim called over to the man behind the bar, "Ike, I think our east coast guest needs some Kentucky whiskey," lifted two fingers.

The bartender nodded, brought up another glass, poured and poured a refill for Tim.

"Put it on my bill and I'll settle up. This is my last," Tim added.

"Cutting out early tonight, are you?" The bartender slipped a receipt onto the counter and left them to it.

"A regular?" Will commented.

Tim raised his eyebrows and grinned with a bit of comedy, downed his drink, pinned a couple of bills beneath the empty glass and left.

"A pleasant evening to you, too," Will said under his breath, sniffed his whiskey, then sipped at it cautiously. He looked curiously at the neat line of tiny paper balls and a straw arranged by Tim's glass, smiled a more willing smile when he recognized what they were then frowned and ran a hand through the back of his hair, checking. He decided he might like Kentucky more than Virginia if all the folks here were similarly uninterested in him. He wondered if his dogs would mind a move.

* * *

"So it might not be our guy." Jack Crawford summarized the discussion, sipped at his morning coffee in a borrowed conference room.

"No, no," Will Graham said, emphatic, "it_ is_ our guy. The chess game was played out exactly like the last two, but with the next move added. He just didn't get a chance to finish the scene. It was discovered too quickly."

"By the Marshal," Jack completed everyone's thought. "What do we know about this Marshal?"

Will looked at Jack with an expression that suggested something bitter on his tongue. "You don't really think he'd call in his own murder, do you? What would be the point?"

Jack played at Devil's advocate, "Maybe he struck too close to home, recognized his mistake and is covering his tracks."

"You're reaching."

"The man's ex-military, Army Ranger. He's been in combat in…"

"Afghanistan – I know." Will finished the sentence and wondered how Jack knew all of this and it wasn't even lunch yet. "That doesn't mean anything."

"He has likely killed before. So now he has a taste for it. He would have training in…"

"Are you suggesting they teach Army Rangers how to skin people now?" Will questioned the logic. "Of course I can see how that would be useful in combat." The sarcasm in his words bit hard.

"Means and opportunity," Jack recited, talking overtop of the jab.

"And a serial killer doesn't need motive," Beverly Katz finished.

"The military_ is_ a favorite career choice for a psychopath," added Brian.

"Not to mention law enforcement," Jimmy piped in. "He fits the profile."

"It's _not_ him." Will was getting annoyed. They weren't seeing what was obvious to him and it frustrated, rankled, rang in his head loudly, not just because they were being obtuse but because he felt their argument was more a symptom of their lack of trust in his judgment than their suspicions about the Marshal. Their distrust smothered him. It was palpable and irritated open wounds. How could they still hold him accountable? No one recognized the truth that time. No one.

"Brian," Jack turned to one of his team, "dig a little deeper into the Marshal. This all seems too convenient to ignore. I want a full background check. Find out what he did in the military, then call the Lexington Bureau Chief and find out what he was doing the last 72 hours. The body's fresh this time – a day or two, tops. Maybe he'll have easy-to-confirm alibis." He said this last for Will's benefit, a wire-thin smile to placate.

"It's not him," Will stated again, confident, dismissive.

Jack dropped the smile and leveled a look at his profiler, a look that carried with it a summary of the cost to all involved in catching the Chesapeake Ripper. It was a slap, a sharp reminder of Will's inability that time to see what was right in front of him. _No one is infallible,_ the look said. And he was closest of anyone to the truth and the monster, Hannibal Lecter.

Will flushed slightly at the unspoken rebuke, dropped his eyes and took ownership of the guilt, at least a part. "It's not him," he repeated but with less certainty. "There aren't that many Hannibal Lecters in the world." He spat out the last, turned and drifted away across the room while Jack continued delivering his orders for the day.

After the other three agents were started on their day's tasks, Jack followed Will to the window, stood silently at his side like a sentinel. _Like a chess piece,_ Will thought, playing with the parallel – a black bishop, or a rook, too powerful to be the king. No one would ever get Jack Crawford into checkmate. _And what does that make me? A pawn._

"What are you thinking, Will?"

"I'm thinking that Lexington is a nice city," he lied. "I wonder how good the fly fishing is. Maybe I'll apply for a position at the University here, take up bourbon as a hobby."

"As you just said, there aren't many Hannibal Lecters in this world."

Jack was reeling him back in. Will knew the routine – a bit like fly fishing. He turned his head slightly in response but his eyes never made it to their meeting with Jack's. It was as much acknowledgement as he'd offer that he was still shaken by that one case. He was halfway maybe – maybe – halfway to getting past the betrayal. _There's only one Hannibal Lecter in the world._ He kept repeating it, hourly, and yet, still, everyone was Hannibal Lecter.

And that thought strung together the next. And this one he spoke aloud with a small shake of his head. "No, he's definitely _not _Hannibal Lecter. He's not a good chess player, either."

"Who?"

"The Chess Master, as Brian likes to call him." Will ran his finger and thumb under his glasses, rubbed the sides of his nose. "He wants to be. He hates that he's not smart enough. He was born into privilege but didn't live up to expectations. Maybe the victims all played online chess?"

"You think he might be choosing them that way?"

"It's a possibility. He's embarrassed…or has been…about his inability to play the game." Will wagged his head, added, "Among other things."

Jack pulled out his phone and called back to Virginia to put some tech people on a hunt for online chess sites and links to names from the case. Will felt a bitterness well up, mixed with gratitude, knowing that his leaps of intuition still counted for something. He headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Jack demanded, covering his phone with his hand.

"To see a Marshal about a missing person."

"You could call him. They have phones."

"I feel like a walk. Maybe I'll borrow somebody's dog." He closed the door a little harder than necessary, opened it again, peered in sheepishly. "Does anyone have any idea where the federal courthouse is?"

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Three**

"What, you didn't like the bourbon?"

Will spun around and found himself face to face with Tim Gutterson. He was at ease in the courthouse lobby, standing like he belonged, arms crossed, smirking annoyingly.

"Actually, I did," Will said, wishing, despite the needed walk, that he'd called over and avoided all the eyes. He took a breath and made the effort to be social. "It's...completely different from scotch. It seems less serious somehow."

"I think maybe you need to be less serious about your alcohol. Are you here to see me?" Tim gestured to the elevator, arrived and open and inviting, stepped around the FBI profiler and held the door.

Will followed him on. "I was hoping for more information about your witness."

"Oh, I think he's yours now," Tim drawled, leaning lazily against the back wall. "In fact, if I find any of his skin, I'll make sure to forward it to you in Virginia."

The casual way Tim spoke of the gruesome murder pushed Jack's suspicions forward in Will's thoughts and he decided to fish around a little, just to prove Jack wrong. "That's kind of you, but wouldn't you rather keep it?"

"What for?" The Marshal was staring at him, clearly questioning his sanity.

"It'd make a nice souvenir," Will suggested, shrugged, used to having his sanity questioned.

Tim looked a bit disgusted at the thought then screwed up his mouth thinking. "I guess I could use it as a rug, put it in the boss's office. Or maybe get it stuffed and prop it up by my desk as a warning: This is what happens when you ignore the rules of the Federal WITSEC program."

Will appeared to be attempting a grin. "I hope you're joking."

"You started it. And I take back what I said – you need to take your alcohol _more_ seriously."

Will's grin did another false start.

The elevator stopped and Tim raised his eyebrows, made a face like the one from the bar the night before then led the way into the Marshals Office and over to a desk near the back. He reached past a computer monitor and pulled a folder from a pile, waved it at Will.

"Everything I know about Alex Crespin, give or take."

He held the information out between them; Will stared at it.

"I was actually hoping to…talk to you about him. I could read that but...but I want…I_ need_ more of a feel for the man," Will explained.

Tim dropped the hand holding the file, face unreadable. "Okay," he said, an obvious lack of enthusiasm as he tossed the file back onto his desk. "Uh, but it's not like I played poker with the guy on Fridays."

"But you must have gotten some sense of his routine and perhaps a..."

"Tim!"

Tim turned at the sound of the voice; Will jumped.

"That's the boss," Tim explained, catching the nervous movement. "His bark's worse than his bite – mostly." He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat. I'll just be a minute."

He trotted over to the Chief's office, leaned in the door. Art Mullen was scowling, never a good thing.

"Who's that?" he demanded, nodded at Tim's guest, then turned his attention back to his computer screen.

"Special Agent Will Graham, Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI. He's a teacher at Quantico. Does field work on big cases. Good at his job apparently – freakishly talented profiler." Tim paused, not sure he had Art's attention, then added, "He's the one who caught Hannibal Lecter."

Art looked up, suddenly interested. "No shit."

"No shit."

The Chief studied the FBI agent through the glass. "He looks a bit…off."

"Yup, he is a bit off. You try chasing psychopaths for a week and we'll see how you look."

"What does he want?"

Tim pouted, accusing, "You haven't read my report yet and I even came in early to finish it and everything."

"I've been busy, Tim. I have a whole office to run _and_ I've spent most of the morning fielding questions about you from the FBI. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but it was a guy from their Behavioral Sciences Unit. I was wondering when they were gonna catch up with you."

"Ha."

Art grinned, said, "I didn't know you were working with Raylan yesterday. What did he do to piss off the Feebs this time? And why didn't you stop him?"

Tim looked back to his desk, caught Will's eye and motioned for him to join them, answered Art's question at the same time, "I was working alone yesterday. And before you ask, I have no idea where Raylan is."

"Well then, what did _you_ do to piss off the Feebs? Whatever it is – stop doing it. I hate dealing with them._"_

"The Feds are interested in our disappeared WITSEC guy. If you'd read my report, you'd know all this." He paused then, looked directly at Will now beside him in the doorway, and continued conversationally, "Did you say the Feds were asking about me – the Psycho Unit specifically?" He watched for a reaction.

Art caught the cue, directed his attention at Will when he replied, "Yeah, they wanted to know all about you, Tim. What you were doing on specific dates and what your connection was to the WITSEC guy because you're the one that found him dead, and they asked, 'does he normally find people dead?' So I asked them if the guy had been shot and they said 'no, the victim was mostly skinned alive while he choked to death.'" Art paused here for effect. "I told them if it was you that'd killed him he'd have a nice clean bullet hole through his head, so could they please stop bothering me."

"I appreciate the support, Chief."

"Not a problem."

"Yeah," Will breathed out, studied his shoes, the carpet. "We...at the FBI...we're good at making friends."

Tim exchanged a look with his boss then made the introductions.

Art stood and shook hands. "Well, Special Agent Graham, if you're gonna follow Tim around and try and catch him doing something psycho, you gotta be less obvious." A stage whisper: "He's on to you."

Will chuckled nervously, eyes restlessly wandering the office. "You've been talking to Agent Zeller, maybe?"

"For a whole hour. He's a friendly fellow." Art crossed his arms aggressively, said passively, "So you're in Kentucky chasing a serial killer and my deputy is on the list of suspects?"

"He's not on _my_ list of suspects. Jack Crawford is just being…thorough."

"Thorough. Uh-huh. Well, if _that's all..._ What can we do for you?"

"I'm hoping to dig up something on the victim, maybe find a connection to the others."

"What are you looking for?"

Will shrugged, "I'll let you know when I find it. I know that sounds like I'm evading or…but…it's the truth. I really don't know what I'm looking for. Could I borrow your deputy for a few hours? I'd like to trace his investigation." He turned to Tim then, hands out to smooth any ruffled feathers but still not making eye contact. "I'm not…I'm not suggesting you missed anything, it's just…you probably weren't thinking like a…a serial killer when you were following him."

"You hope," said Art, mischief and a grin.

* * *

"You don't look surprised," Tim said glancing over his shoulder at Will's face, "at all." He led the way further into the condo, into the main living area. "The place shocked the hell out of me first time I saw it."

Will slipped on his glasses, stood in the center of the main room and turned in a circle, taking it all in. It was a spacious penthouse, sparse, but the sparseness of elegance and expense not poverty. "I was expecting it," he said. "Hoping, actually. It fits our pattern so far."

"Doesn't fit any pattern I know. Me, I'm used to seeing squalor – especially with folks involved in the shit this asshole was into. Crime really doesn't pay all that well."

"You're stereotyping."

Tim kept walking, stopped at the window with a view of the city. "Isn't that what you FBI profilers rely on – stereotypes?"

"No. It's more about personality types."

Tim turned around, a mocking smile, "Oh, sorry – _refined and educated_ stereotypes then."

"Fair enough," Will replied, unruffled, conceding the point and continuing his visual tour of the room. He huffed as he watched Tim flop down on the leather couch and drop his feet on the glass coffee table. He felt a compulsion to comment. "I'll bet Alex Crespin never put his boots," a scolding finger, pointing, "on that table."

"Some people just don't know how to appreciate the gifts given to them," drifted lazily back over.

Will huffed again, but this time with humor and the feeling that this was something they shared, he and the Marshal, a disregard for appearances and presentation. But Tim's reply struck a deeper chord too, a dissonance, and Will reacted to it, said, "Does anyone really ever appreciate a gift? I mean, seriously. Do you?"

"I wasn't given any. I earned everything I got."

"Grew up poor." Will nodded, getting a picture. He decided to poke, "And would you consider that chip on your shoulder a gift?"

"Nah, that's just me sucking at doing laundry." Tim wiped an imaginary spot and got a chuckle for his effort at humor. Then he poked back. "And what's your problem? You grow up poor too, or just don't appreciate yours?"

"My…?"

"Your gifts."

"Oh, I grew up poor, too. Small town Louisiana."

Tim raised his eyebrows and grinned with a bit of comedy, the same face he made at the bar the previous night. "Not all gifts come in a box," he said.

"Which means what?"

"Means nothing. I'm just trying to figure why you always look so miserable." And there was that face again. "Your girlfriend dump you?"

Will tried to puzzle out what that face meant – disdain, blunt and honest, or a mask to deflect any closer scrutiny? He turned away eventually, undecided, and wandered into another room.

"Just 'cause it's a gift doesn't mean you have to like it – just means it's free," Tim called after him, a farce of Kentucky twang.

"Nothing's free," Will muttered and stopped short at the sight of the chess board set up in the bedroom, pieces familiarly placed, the black queen at her starting position. He took a deep breath, possibilities hanging in the air, dialed Jack and recommended a forensics unit go over the apartment. He hung up and let his eyes drift around the room, hunting for some piece of evidence that might suggest company. He closed his eyes then and let his imagination loose, let it too drift around the room. Nothing.

"Forensics is a waste of time." Tim was leaning on the door frame, arms crossed, watching.

"I know. He wasn't here. Jack would've ordered it anyway though and I…I have to appear like I know what I'm doing. I didn't…I didn't go through the FBI training – didn't get past the front door, actually."

"But they'll let you teach there."

"Less involved entrance exams for that."

"Well, that means you probably failed the 'dick test' that my boss likes to think all Feds have to take. If it makes you feel better,_ we'll_ be more inclined to like you. I'll make sure everybody knows." Tim nodded at the chess board. "Recognize the game?"

"Yes. Yes, why didn't you mention it before?"

"It's in my report." Tim paused and waited for an acknowledgement, finally shrugged. "Nobody reads anymore. It wasn't _that_ long." He pushed off and headed toward the door. "And I typed it. We done here? There's nothing to see really."

Will followed him, caught up in the hallway. "Yeah, we're done here."

He wondered what else the Marshal might have noticed in his first pass through the apartment. He seemed very aware of details. He reached out to stop him, a light hand on his shoulder to get his attention. The reaction was immediate and violent. Tim jerked away and spun around, tensed, hands up and defensive. He dropped the aggression quickly and looked down at his boots but not fast enough to stop Will getting a glimpse beneath the glib façade.

Will took a couple of quick steps backward, the few breaths of silence advertising his surprise at Tim's reaction. "Sorry, I...I, uh... What else is in your report?" he asked finally, too late to pretend he hadn't seen.

Tim wiped a hand across his mouth, eyes still on the floor. "He was logged into an online chess game when the landlord let me in. Same board moves." He spoke quickly, unemotionally, filling the awkward void with words. "It's a famous match, right? Karpov vs Kasparov, 1985. Can't remember which game. I dunno, maybe it's a coincidence – there aren't an unlimited number of options for starting off a board – but it looks like your guy's just recreating a game that's already been played. Makes you wonder if he's really much of a chess player or if he just likes to one-up people. I know lots of folks like that."

Will pushed his glasses up with one finger and unconsciously mimicked the face he'd seen a few times already on the Marshal. "Are you sure you don't want my job?"

Finally looking up again, Tim said, "That'd mean working with dicks every day, right?"

Tugging itself up at the corners, Will's mouth managed another smile. "Right. Forget it. The job sucks."

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	4. Chapter 4

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Four**

Jack Crawford stopped in front of the steps of the condominium where Tim and Will were sitting watching the bustle of forensics passing inside.

"I read your report," he said, a formidable presence, safe behind sunglasses and with the sun positioned to his advantage at his back.

Tim raised a hand against the glare, squinting into the light, eyeing the grim man in charge and waiting for the criticism that seemed likely to follow his statement, but none came. He ventured a response. "Glad somebody did. I used Spell Check and everything."

"It was very thorough. I'm impressed. It seems to me that you understand more about the game of chess than you let on yesterday."

An eyebrow to acknowledge the truth. "I play online sometimes."

Will leaned over and whispered. "I wouldn't admit that if I were you."

"You want me to lie to the head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI?" Tim faked shock.

Jack looked from one to the other. "I'm glad to see you two are getting along so well."

Tim wondered if it was a skill they taught at Quantico, the ability to say one thing while your face expressed the exact opposite sentiment. Certainly Jack Crawford was an expert at it. He was tired of the Feds and had a desk loaded with work to get through and he ran a number of completely inappropriate retorts through his head, searching for something to get him kicked off the case. Fortunately his phone rang before his mouth got him into trouble and he answered it while thinking up interesting descriptions for the man in charge of the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit.

It was Art. It was a situation – a situation that required a particular skill set and Tim Gutterson was the only one in law enforcement in Lexington who had that particular skill set, had it at a level of craftsmanship that was rare enough to warrant other branches calling him out for it. An experienced sniper was required – one who didn't miss.

He hung up and let out a long breath. The situation would get him out from under Jack Crawford's glare but he didn't like the price he'd likely have to pay for the escape.

"I gotta go," he said, pushed suddenly and wearily up off the step.

"Not so fast," Jack said, holding out a hand. "We're not finished here yet."

"You'll have to finish without me." Tim walked past the hand and headed toward his vehicle.

"I haven't said you could leave." Jack restated his orders more forcefully. "We're not done with you yet."

Tim didn't bother to turn around. "Take it up with my boss."

"Brian," the general barked. "Go with him." _Keep an eye on him_ was implied.

"I'll go," Will offered.

The statement caught Jack Crawford by surprise and Will took advantage of it, hustled after the Marshal and out of range of a 'no.'

Will was running away, a bit cowardly perhaps, but he was tired of eyes always on him, searching, wondering, measuring, the guilt, the distrust, the animosity, sometimes a whole mix. The anonymity he felt with the Lexington Marshals was a vacation. He hadn't realized until Kentucky how badly he needed one. It was the best drug he'd ever tried, anonymity, and he'd tried a few, prescribed and not prescribed. The only trouble was, this one was likely highly addictive.

He imagined for a moment hijacking Tim and his car and demanding he drive him into the middle of Montana and drop him there. It only took a second for Will to come up with the few things wrong with this plan, things like: The Marshal would probably disarm him and club him over the head. And even if the Marshal decided not to bother, the vehicle likely had a transponder and someone would catch up with them before they got halfway across Kentucky. And most importantly, who would look after his dogs?

He climbed into the passenger seat as Tim started the engine. Tim looked sideways at him but didn't say anything. Will got the distinct impression that he was thinking along the same lines – just how far can I get from here before they drag me back?

The drive was silent, no jokes, no banter, the man beside him drawing himself inward, and Will wondered what the call was about. It must be bad news to have affected the Marshal this much, but Will had no desire to ask about it. The silence was all he needed, and clearly, the Marshal didn't need anything from him either.

He felt selfish. It felt good. He closed his eyes and appreciated the gift.

* * *

Tim drove quickly through the streets, pulled the car into a blockade of cruisers, got out and jogged over to where Art was standing ready with a rifle and an earpiece, accepted them with a terse nod and continued without stopping, forward into a sea of blue shirts and serious faces.

Will followed, forgotten, kept his distance and observed. The Marshal crouched behind a patrol car and surveyed the scene, turned and surveyed the buildings behind him then ran a block back and up to a utility ladder on a short building.

Will trotted after him, intercepting him at the bottom of the ladder. "What's going on?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the rifle, recognizing the model and its purpose.

"Always kids. I always get the call when there's kids involved. I hate it," Tim grumbled, more to himself than his shadow. "Everyone's too chickenshit to take the shot." He slipped the rifle over his shoulder as he bitched, then maneuvered quickly up the ladder and disappeared over the top.

Will considered his options – stay on the ground or follow. His curiosity won out and he took a breath and climbed to the roof, crouched needlessly and ran to the front edge where Tim was setting himself up. It's what Jack Crawford wanted anyway, he told himself, getting onto his stomach on the hot asphalt roof, someone to study the Marshal, look for something to move the man up or down on the list of suspects.

Tim was completely engrossed in his task, mechanical and meticulous, so far away from anything now but this precise and present moment that Will couldn't read a single emotion from his face. Watching the sniper carefully, Will imagined himself as Hannibal Lecter, objectively studying his subjects, coldly observing, a professional interest, intent on the interplay between action and reaction, playing God in a small way, fulfilling narcissistic desires. And he understood Lecter better, at least on the surface, snatched a glimpse of how putting people in horrible situations just to see what happened had fascinated the psychopath. The difference was that Hannibal viewed it as a hobby – he enjoyed it; for Will it was his job – he had to force himself to look and he hated it.

"Plug your ears."

The command, hissed sharply between teeth, snapped Will out of his thoughts and he turned his head quickly to look the 300 yards to the target. He couldn't make out any features on the man; he looked improbably far away to hit and yet Will knew – he'd read about it at least – that it was a short shot for a trained sniper. He turned back again to read Tim's face, gleaning what he could from the stillness and concentration and jerked with surprise when the trigger was pulled and the shot split the air. He covered his ears too late.

"Shit!"

He squeezed his eyes tightly against the ringing and pressed his hands hard against the sides of his head. Would he ever learn? When he opened his eyes again, Tim was already up, kneeling back, flicking on the safety.

"Did you get him?" Will asked and realized belatedly how stupid that sounded, how childish.

Tim just looked at him blankly then reached up and removed the earpiece from one ear and a foam plug from the other. "What?"

"That's some gift," Will stated, glad his first reaction went unheard.

"_Gift?"_ Tim repeated, stood up and brushed off. "Yeah, sure." The voice was cold and the expression was cold too, but the confusion of emotions behind the eyes left Will reeling.

And there was that face again, definitely deflecting. Tim slung the rifle back over his shoulder and walked to the ladder, moving easily onto it and down the side of the building and out of sight.

Will's eyes lingered on the metal handholds at the top of the ladder where Tim had vanished. Then he stood and turned, looking out toward a small park, the local police leading a line of daycare kids to a waiting bus, and beyond the activity a man on his back by the tallest slide, death lying on display on a sunny summer afternoon. What would push a man to this? He tasted at the despair and anger with his imagination then brushed it aside and steered his thoughts instead to the feelings that might be circulating through the mind of the other man, the one behind the high-powered rifle.

Duty. And resignation, the aversion to killing beaten into submission, the dull acceptance of no alternatives, a last resort – very unlike a psychopath.

_A psychopath has alternatives,_ Will recited to himself, _he chooses to do what he does._ On the other hand, maybe killing the lousy chess player gave the sniper a moment to enjoy choices? But Will knew that was forcing the role onto a suspect rather than having the suspect slide neatly into the role. No, Will couldn't _see_ it. The evidence didn't support it somehow. Now, if he could only come up with a clear reason to convince Jack Crawford, something to point to.

It came to him like always, all of a sudden, one of his infamous intuitive leaps.

"Psychopaths don't drink to forget," he said aloud.

* * *

When Will finally made it down the ladder and found Tim, he was the center of a group that could've been mistaken as a tailgate party in full swing, minus the barbecue. Tim was the only one looking out of place, sullen amid the smiles and congratulations and back slaps. Will waded into the melee and tapped Tim's shoulder, motioned to the car. _Jack Crawford_, he mouthed over the competing voices, _I have to go_, and an apologetic look that meant, _you understand, of course, _waved his cell phone.

Tim nodded and followed him back through the impromptu celebration, stopping to pick up his rifle case from Art's car as he went past.

Art said something in his ear, just for him, and Tim smiled and dropped his head down and Art patted his shoulder and let him go then directed a look at Will that suggested he'd skin him alive if he caused any trouble for his sniper.

Will wasn't certain he could reassure him but whipped up a supportive smile nonetheless. He felt out of his depth watching Tim break down the rifle with practiced movements, confident, then stow it carefully in the trunk. He felt like he was intruding on something private and turned away and hid in the car. A minute later Tim slid stiffly into the driver's seat. The car door buffered them against the street noise, muting everything as it closed, and Tim drew in a long breath and let it out slowly.

"Where to?"

"I could use a drink," said Will, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

Tim kept his fixed straight ahead out the windshield, watching the milling at the scene.

Will wasn't sure Tim had heard him and was just about to repeat himself when Tim finally spoke again.

"What does Crawford want?"

"He wants us," Will said, very deliberately, "to go have…a drink."

Tim finally glanced at his passenger, questioning. "He didn't call?"

"No," Will confessed. "But I'm sure he'd like us to have a drink. It's been a long couple of days. He's a reasonable man…mostly."

Tim snorted.

"If we're going to skip out, we should probably not go to that bar near the hotel," Will suggested.

Tim nodded, started the car, put it in gear and backed away from the tailgate party.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	5. Chapter 5

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Five**

"My ears are still ringing."

Tim raised an eyebrow and his beer glass, took a mouthful, looked as though he did it purely to stop himself from saying something.

Will's hands came up sharply to ward off the sarcasm, "I know. I know. You warned me. Thank you." Then he chuckled. "Me and guns…it's…it's never…pretty." He grimaced and reached for another sip of the bourbon he'd ordered, determined to develop a taste, grimaced again when it hit his tongue. "I go to the range, but honestly, I'm hopeless."

Tim hadn't yet settled back down from whatever plane he had to occupy to make the shots he did. He ordered a drink, and listened. And Will seemed happy to talk, filling the space. He laid out the entire investigation to date, the FBI's hunt for this latest serial killer. He made it clear that he agreed with Tim's assessment, commented dismissively that the moniker 'The Chess Master' was a gross exaggeration, then he added his own insights, even some he hadn't yet mentioned to the rest of the team. Eventually he exhausted the topic and became acutely aware that his voice was the only voice. Usually he had to compete to be heard, even with his dogs. This silence was too rich, even for his taste.

He decided to work on drawing out his companion a little. It was a safe and familiar habit, one he'd learned moving around growing up, always the stranger in the crowd, a habit to combat the simple truth that no one really cared to hear about you or what you had to say; they preferred the sound of their own voices and the talk to be only about themselves.

"So you were a sniper in Afghanistan before you became a Marshal?"

He reached out and got bit.

"So you were teaching at the FBI Academy before Jack Crawford pulled you into the field and into the heads of serial killers and fucked you over?" Tim leaned back away from the table and crossed his arms as he fired off the words.

Will blinked, took off his glasses and folded them slowly and slid them into his pocket. _Note to self,_ he thought wryly, _not everyone likes to talk about themselves. _"I didn't realize the US Marshals Service database included information about FBI personnel."

"It doesn't. I have a friend."

"FBI, or something even more insidious?"

"Both."

"Ah. A man with friends is a man to fear." Will pressed his lips together into a defeated smile. "I can't get away from the gossip…or my talent, it seems."

"You mean your _gift?"_

A wry huff.

"Mine is shooting people," Tim said slowly, "with extreme and deadly accuracy."

That was a conversation stopper, but it sounded to Will too, as if Tim were standing down, holstering his guns. Tim made the face again after his statement and this time Will knew what it meant.

"Is that a skill you honed in Afghanistan?"

Tim drew circles on the table with the condensation from his beer glass, dodged the question. "I'd like to trade in my gift. I'm tired of it."

"Regift it, you mean?"

Tim snorted. "Regift it – yeah. Something like that. Who could I trust it to though?" He seemed to seriously ponder the idea. "Art maybe. You. You want it? I think you'd use it well. For good rather than evil," he added facetiously.

"_No."_ Hands up defensively again, and now it was Will backing away from the table. "No, thank you. I tried shooting somebody once. It didn't go very well – during or after."

"During?"

Will's face scrunched itself painfully. "I emptied an entire clip into a man and he still lived long enough to speak to me. And believe me – I really didn't want to hear what he had to say."

Tim stared at Will a moment then broke out laughing. "Shit. You're kidding me." His grin nearly split his face into two pieces. He looked like a grade school kid enjoying some toilet humor.

"The next time…I know…hard to believe they'd let me keep a gun after that…the next time I managed to nick this guy's ear…" Will pointed to the spot, a hapless frown and Tim laughed harder.

Will couldn't help but chuckle with him, wondering at the same time that Tim could find this at all funny. He reminded himself that the Marshal had likely shot and killed more people than anyone he knew and the thought was sobering. Whenever he pulled a firearm, Will expected _not_ to have to use it – it was a shock to him if he did – but the man sitting across from him probably anticipated having to pull the trigger each and every time he got behind a rifle. What would that be like – the expectation of killing? Maybe you just get used to it, like public speaking or bourbon. _Or maybe you don't,_ he thought. Maybe you hide the shock of it again and again behind a face – raised eyebrows and a smile for comedy.

Maybe he should try that face the next time he had to slip into the head of a serial killer.

He realized he had been staring at his drinking partner, that he enjoyed watching him laughing. Eyes are distracting, he reminded himself, and looked away and signaled for another drink.

* * *

There was something about Will Graham that held Tim's attention. He couldn't put his finger on what at first, but for once he found he didn't mind listening. Listening carefully was work, but if Tim was interested enough in what was being said, he worked at it. The rest of the time, he just faked it well.

Because he was 'taciturn,' the word some dewy-eyed girl had used to describe him one night trying to impress the tattooed young man with her vocabulary, because he was 'reserved,' the word his weapons instructor at Glynco had used to describe him when questioning him about his rather prodigious skills on the range, because he didn't feel much like talking since Afghanistan – call it what you want – he could fool people into believing he was a good listener, or more to the point, they fooled themselves that he was. Everyone who took a seat near him in a bar, deliberately or not, wound up regaling him with their life story, prattling on with tales from their woefully boring existence, loving the sound of their own voice. His silence encouraged it.

What they didn't realize was that he really didn't give a shit. He didn't come to the bar to make friends; he didn't come to the bar to make strangers feel good about themselves; he came to the bar to drink. That's what the bottles were for. He would tune them out, completely, his thoughts drifting from their self-serving monologue to a repair he needed to do on his motorcycle or maybe to dissecting his latest results at the rifle range.

But not this time. This time Tim was riveted and it wasn't even work.

Will was drinking with a purpose and weaving with intimate knowledge the fascinating drama of the capture of Hannibal Lecter, a story that would make a good listener out of anybody. Every news channel, every paper, every radio station across the country had offered up to the public whatever juicy scraps the reporters could glean about the crimes of Hannibal the Cannibal, the serial killer of the century, the Chesapeake Ripper. It had been headline news for a month. Everyone wanted more meat, but everyone would have to wait until after the trial started for the full serving of horror. Not Tim, though. He was getting every gruesome detail, straight from the mouth of the very drunk FBI profiler who was responsible for Hannibal Lecter's arrest.

But it was more than the details that held Tim's interest. Will was telling the story from a very personal viewpoint. It was a story of betrayal. It was a Greek tragedy worthy of Sophocles.

Will was fixated on Hannibal's betrayal and came back to it again and again. But Tim could see other betrayals, more subtle, just as harmful. Will's gift had betrayed him, leading him on a self-destructive path with the lure of defending the helpless. Tim could see it; he understood it. And he could see too, the betrayal of unthinking orders, the blind motion forward focusing only on the goal, so many dead and wounded along the way.

Tim would gladly have put his eyes out with what he'd witnessed first-hand in Afghanistan, the sacrifices made, the cost to so many, all for a goal. At what point did the cost of reaching the goal outweigh the cost of not reaching the goal? The devil was in the details – what you saw when you got a close enough look at the brush strokes needed to complete the bigger picture. He drank himself stupid sometimes just to stop seeing it. And Will seemed to be doing the same thing tonight. One bourbon following the next until Tim called a halt and ordered some crap bar food to balance it out.

"Why don't you quit?" Tim finally blurted out, but he knew the answer even before Will replied.

"Why don't _you _quit?"

Tim made the face again and mirrored the glare he was getting from Will.

"It's just not that easy, and you know it," Will continued, his voice harsh but quiet. "I've tried. And apparently so have you. You can't run away from yourself; you can't hide from yourself. You wake up in the morning…and there you are. _Quit. _ Then what? Some poor idiot who can't do the job as well takes your place and more people suffer."

Will was slurring his words but they still cut. His phone rang; he ignored it. He reached for his glass instead.

Tim stared.

"What?" Will snapped, ignoring his phone a second time.

"I'm trying to picture you as a homicide detective. It's not working for me."

"It didn't work out so well for me, either." Will relaxed a little. His phone rang again; he ignored it. "But I suspect you already know that. You've got some good sources. What don't you know?"

"Why you'd become a cop if you hate guns so much."

"Why would you go into public service if you're so anti-social?"

"Oh, that's not a problem." Tim cocked his head, grinned. "I deal with assholes, not people."

And finally, the fourth time ringing, Tim reached over and into Will's jacket for his phone and answered it.

"This is Special Agent Will Graham's cell," he said, and made the face, this time for Will's benefit; Will benefitted, laughing.

"To whom am I speaking?" A voice responded – so formal and demanding, it had to be the general.

"This is Deputy US Marshal Tim Gutterson. And to whom am I speaking?"

"Jack Crawford. Where's Will?"

"He's right here."

"Put him on."

"And he's fine – thanks for asking. He's just…," at this point, Will dropped his head onto the table, tears streaming down both cheeks, laughing uncontrollably, "…unable to speak on the phone right now."

"Why?"

"Oh, he's doing that thing…that feely thing. You know." Tim shrugged, smirked.

"He was due at a meeting two hours ago. Where are you?"

"How about I bring him to you? It'd be easier all 'round."

"Fine. My hotel suite."

"Okay." Tim hung up quickly, slid the phone across the table. "We gotta go," he said, shook his head despairing. "But we gotta get you somewhat sober first. Any suggestions?"

Will wiped a hand across his eyes. "Water?" He signaled the waiter, asked for water.

"And coffee," Tim added.

"You're not drunk?"

"Takes more than a couple of beers."

Will looked confused. "Is that…all you had?"

"Normally I'd be in for more, but I got the car keys, remember?" He dangled them. "Besides, looks like you needed it more than me."

"I should've stuck to beer." Will reached into his pocket, pulled out his glasses and carefully set them back on. "Glasses," he pointed seriously, "…they make you look more sober."

"Oh yeah – it's working."

Will looked serious then – even without the glasses he would've looked serious. "I really shouldn't be telling you about these cases. I've been doing a lot of talking about things that…well, that I shouldn't have…talked about. I shouldn't have talked about any of it. It could mean my job."

"It's good. It's safe with me," Tim assured him. "Just remind me never to accept a dinner invitation from any of your friends."

"Uh…yeah." A smile for the joke, tinged at the side with distaste.

It came to Tim then what it was about Will Graham that held his attention – Will hadn't pressed when Tim brushed off the curiosity about Afghanistan, just looked at him like he understood something that even Tim couldn't explain.

* * *

xxxxxxxxxx


	6. Chapter 6

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Six**

Beverly Katz answered the door. "Well, look what the cat dragged in."

"Am I really that late?" Will asked in a whisper.

She took a step to the side, blocking him from the rest of the team seated in the room, sneaked a glance back over her shoulder then pulled a pack of mint gum out of her pocket, shoved it into his hand. "Jesus, Will. You smell like the local lock-up on a Saturday night."

Tim looked at his boots to hide his grin. She caught it though, huffed. "You're the Marshal?"

"Tim Gutterson."

He offered his hand and she took it, smiled.

"I'm Beverly Katz. Nice to meet you. Do you need some gum, too?"

"Nope. I'm good."

They both looked at Will, chewing madly.

"I guess I should thank you for looking after him," she said to Tim. "I doubt anyone else will." Then to Will, "I was wondering when you were going to start reacting."

"Reacting?" Will muttered, pretending not to understand, pretending his stint at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane hadn't left lasting scars. "Reacting to what exactly?"

"Everything. Not that I'd blame you. The whole thing was shitty."

"Shitty." Will rolled the description around on his tongue but decided _shitty_ wasn't quite grand enough to encompass the ordeal he'd been through. "I think 'hellish' is a better word."

He glanced at Tim and Tim obliged him and made the face. Will smiled tentatively in return, the collusion bolstering his feelings of rebellion.

Beverly opened her mouth to say something but Jack Crawford appeared at her shoulder, interrupted.

"Where have you been?" His eyes shifted from one errant boy to the other.

"Walking through the Marshal's investigation into Alex Crespin," Will explained. "The situation that Deputy Gutterson was called out to took a little longer to wrap up than I'd hoped. We were…"

"I took him by the park where Crespin went to play bullet chess some evenings," Tim offered up an alibi. "But apparently they don't play after dark. We asked around again, though I'd already done it – it's in my report – and got the same answer. No one new has joined the group in the last couple of months. It's where my investigation dead-ended until I got the call about the car."

"The park is too public," Will continued the lie smoothly, "for the killer to have taken him without somebody noticing. I still think they had to have arranged through the internet to meet someplace – and not at his condo."

Jack nodded.

"Do you think it was likely a bar here too," Beverly asked, "like the one in Virginia?"

They all looked to Tim.

He cocked his head. "Why are you all looking at me? I'm not familiar with _every_ bar in Lexington." Will snorted his disbelief into the pause. "I'll make you up a list though. If it was me, I'd try the ones up north and east first. I wouldn't want to take the roads across the city with an unwilling driver."

"What makes you think Crespin was driving?" Jack demanded.

Tim leaned himself against the door frame while he drawled out his reasoning. "This is the first time I've had the pleasure of working with you folk and it's the third body, right? Well, you do the math, but I suspect this guy hasn't killed in eastern Kentucky before or I'd've heard. Word gets around when a murder is this spectacular. It was Crespin's car and he knew the area better. If he went willingly, it's a no-brainer. If he didn't, then holding a gun on someone to get compliance is a whole lot easier than trying to subdue them and restrain them and stuff them in a car, especially when it's not your car. This is all in my report."

"One might think you have intimate knowledge of this type of situation."

"Nabbed a few Taliban in my misspent youth. Sometimes they'd be scared shitless and sit meekly in the vehicle but sometimes you had to shoot them in the leg to stop them squirming."

There wasn't a flicker of emotion in the tone but Tim's bravado faltered slightly when he glanced at Will and caught him looking at him again like he understood something behind the words, something Tim hadn't yet been able to work out for himself. It made him uncomfortable. He suddenly wanted to leave.

"If I'm not needed here anymore…"

Jack ignored the request for a dismissal, stood looking intently at the Marshal like he too knew something. But with Jack, Tim was sure he was being misunderstood and that was easy to deal with. He let his gaze meet the General's, unworried, unhurried.

Eventually Will shuffled his feet, embarrassed, said, "Ah…" a quick look at Jack, "…we're fine here, Tim. Thanks for your help though."

"We'll be in touch when we want something," Jack added. "Don't go too far." The threat was clear.

"Why, I'm going straight to the office to book my vacation. Alaska's nice this time of year," Tim said, brushed past Will and strolled down the hallway to the elevators.

"I have never quite appreciated how good you are at being rude," Will said softly when the Marshal had rounded the corner. "Jack, he's been nothing but cooperative."

"He's still a suspect, Will, or have you forgotten."

"Oh, _please._ Don't waste my time – I have a serial killer to catch."

Jack blocked Will from walking into the room, gave Beverly a look that sent her scurrying. "Really? Are you still interested in catching serial killers?"

"What do you think I've been doing?" Will narrowed his eyes angrily, stared at a spot on Jack's shoulder.

"I'm not sure I know. Are you still with us, Will?"

"I've always been _with you,_ Jack. I'm not certain I can say the opposite is true." Will pushed past, into the spotlight of stares from the rest of the team.

* * *

It bounced off, he hardly felt it, and he left it where it landed on the floor of the hotel hallway – Jack's attitude. Tim saw it coming a mile away, anticipated the attack, shields up, any feelings tucked away safely in his mind's panic room. _Do your worst, asshole._

He quirked an eyebrow when he recognized the tune muzaking from the speakers in the elevator – Aerosmith's "Love in an Elevator" – seriously. He chuckled, feeling alright all things considered, walked out of the hotel lobby to his car and drove to the courthouse.

He was surprised to see the office so busy. It was after 7pm. Art was standing talking to Rachel, nodded a greeting.

"How're the Feds? Treating you alright?"

"The usual." Tim mumbled a reply, walked to his desk.

"I tell you – dicks, every one." Art said it for the room.

No point trying to disavow that statement, Tim thought, being true for the most part.

"Was that really Will Graham in here today?" Rachel asked, plucking the name straight out of Tim's head at that precise moment and he stutter-stepped.

Raylan lifted his head from whatever he was reading. "Who's Will Graham?"

"Only the guy responsible for the arrest of Hannibal Lecter," Rachel explained, always patient, until she wasn't.

"Who?"

"Hannibal the Cannibal?" Rachel clarified, a look of astonishment for Raylan. "Don't tell me you've been so involved in your work that you haven't even skimmed the front page of a newspaper, any newspaper, in the last month."

"I'm pulling your leg. Of course I know who Hannibal is." Raylan stood up for the punch line, stretched. "He's the guy that took the elephants over the Alps." He put on the dumb-hick look. "I paid attention in history class."

Nobody laughed – the joke had already been used so many times that month by countless people that they were immune to it – but Raylan got the reaction he'd hoped for from Rachel, a glare and a huff.

Raylan continued, "So I hear you found our missing WITSEC guy – skinless, bone-in. I can't understand what would be interesting enough in that to catch the notice of the FBI's Psycho Unit."

Art sauntered over to join in the fun. "I got a few other WITSEC assholes I wouldn't mind throwing in the way of their serial killer. Let me give you the list, Tim, and you can go around and teach them all how to play chess."

Raylan feigned surprise to get an insult out. "You play chess?"

"Do I look like I play chess?" Tim deflected, well practiced at it.

"No, that's why I'm asking. I'm all curious now."

Tim turned to Art, said, "Can I teach Raylan how to play?"

"Good luck."

"I already know how to play, thank you. Arlo taught me."

That stopped the conversation cold and they all stared.

"What?" Raylan demanded. "I got pretty good at it."

Tim grinned, not quite friendly. "Then I got a recommendation for an online site for you to try."

Art had a hand to his forehead, worrying it, still wrestling with Raylan's previous statement. _"Arlo_ taught you?"

Rachel walked over to be closer to the boys. "Is that how the killer targeted our WITSEC guy – online chess?"

Tim shrugged. "That's what Graham thinks."

"That's just bizarre." Raylan tucked his chin down, scoffed.

"And skinning him's not?" Tim raised an eyebrow.

"You make a good point. The guy must be a psycho," Raylan quipped.

Tim pulled his keys from a drawer and tucked a file away in it. "What are you all doing here so late anyway?"

"We were waiting on you," said Art. "Wanted to hear all about your day." More sarcasm.

"Aw, shucks." Tim headed for the door. "'Night."

"Hold up," the Chief called. "I'll join you."

"If you're going for a drink, you'd better invite me," Raylan said, a threatening look. "I was in Harlan all day."

"Speaking of psychos," Tim commented under his breath. He turned to Art. "Is that what you were thinking – drink?"

"Well, if you insist. Rachel?"

"I'm in."

Art ushered them out the door and turned off the lights. "You still on their list of suspects?" he asked when they'd crowded onto the elevator.

Tim grimaced. "I don't think Special Agent Crawford likes me very much."

"Do you like him?" Raylan queried.

"He's an asshole."

"There you go then. It all works out nicely. Guess I shouldn't have told them about your collection of scalps when they called though, huh?"

The bar they frequented was a block and half from the courthouse, far enough to be somewhat discreet, close enough to be hard to ignore. The staff knew the Deputies and the Chief Deputy by name and stocked their favorite drinks. Art had commented more than once that he wasn't sure how he felt about being a good customer in this particular establishment, but he always said it with a pleased grin.

The conversation among the Marshals, the insults, complaints, jokes, all wove together into a familiar rhythm that worked as well as a drink for coming down from the day's encounters. Art pestered Tim about his feelings on the shooting that afternoon until the sniper waded heavily into the sarcasm. And that was the point when Art was satisfied that nothing was rattling around loose up in Tim's head that might break the mechanism and he felt it safe to move the conversation on to other things.

Tim, for all of Art's non-too-subtle prying, wasn't thinking about triggers, mechanical or otherwise, he was mulling over the substance behind the looks he'd gotten earlier from Will Graham, _the_ Will Graham, the famous criminal profiler with 'a curious and undefined empathy disorder' to quote his friend at the FBI. The looks of understanding irritated Tim, but only well after the fact. It itched like a scab, burned him with a vague shame, the discomfort of being seen through, uncovered, exposed for a fraud. And it felt like pity and he didn't like it. He didn't want pity or empathy or sympathy or anything even remotely related. He mulled it over then he stewed about it. The entire encounter began to annoy him. It annoyed him too that he couldn't be certain _why_ it annoyed him. There was one thing he was certain of though – that Special Agent Will Graham would understand it. He wasn't comfortable with that. Not at all.

He finished his drink and waved a terse and unapologetically unsociable goodnight and walked to his apartment.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	7. Chapter 7

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Seven**

Will stood just inside the entranceway to the bar and scanned the room. He regretted not phoning Tim directly to make his request. His clearly not-so-brilliant idea of tracking the Marshal down on foot again was forcing him to be sociable, not a role he was comfortable with. He had weighed his options before heading out from the hotel, being sociable against being out from under Jack's constant scrutiny, and decided it was worth the discomfort of walking around and talking to people just to get clear of that hotel suite and moving. Jack Crawford's sternly solicitous stares were suffocating. It was all suffocating. He was even getting tired of the word 'suffocating'.

Besides, he was now sober again after a sobering meeting with the FBI team and he wanted to get back on track. He had a serial killer to catch.

The guard at the courthouse told him to check this particular bar first, the suggestion offered with a liberal slap of disapproving undertone. Law enforcement came in two flavors in Will's experience, a generalization but an apt one: there were those who would welcome the return of prohibition and those who actively and generously supported the liquor industry. Will slotted himself happily in the second group. He thought the bar a perfectly reasonable place to look for a Deputy US Marshal, a perfectly acceptable after-hours venue for the profession. Unfortunately for him though, it meant being still more sociable.

He spotted the Chief Deputy immediately. He was hard to miss in a crowd, especially accompanied as he was by another man wearing a conspicuous cowboy hat looking like he missed the turn to Nashville, and a young, petite black woman who appeared to be plucked from the graduation hall at Harvard or the FBI academy – an unlikely trio. But Tim wasn't with them. Will accepted defeat and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, digging for his phone, just as Art looked up, recognized him and waved him over.

_Damn,_ he thought, hoping to avoid any more conversations this night, but it was too late now for an escape so he grudgingly wound his way through the tables to meet the Marshals.

"Good evening," Art said, standing to greet him, "You here to arrest Tim? You missed him. I think he went home to play some online chess."

Will grinned at the poke to be _sociable,_ ran his eyes quickly over the others sitting at the table. "No, I'm not here to arrest him – I'll leave that to the more official-looking FBI agents. I'm just...looking for an escort…preferably armed and…preferably a better shot than me. I was hoping Deputy Gutterson might be willing to take a trip back to the scene tonight. Would you happen to know where I could find him?"

"I think he's taking night school courses in animal skinning," Raylan offered.

Another social smile.

"Or he might be at home, curled up on the couch watching his favorite movie, _Se7en."_ Rachel smiled coolly.

"I always have to watch _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ when I go over for movie night," Art commented.

"He makes me watch _Psycho," _said Raylan. "It gives me nightmares."

Everyone put on a social smile and Will accepted the jabbing, appreciated them defending their coworker.

"Sorry," Art said after a pause, and not sorry at all. "Don't mean to be rude. Let me make the introductions." He pointed to his Marshals in turn. "This is Deputy Rachel Brooks, Deputy Raylan Givens. And this, boys and girls, is Agent Will Graham, FBI."

"Actually, I'm _Special_ Agent Will Graham…not really FBI. I'm a…consultant." He looked apologetic.

Raylan dodged and weaved, tried and failed to catch Will's eye. "A consultant, huh? I didn't think the FBI ever _consulted_ with anybody but their 'mirror, mirror on the wall.'"

Will jerked a smile, half shrugged, a wry tilt to the head, nodded. "They seem willing enough to suffer me…when it's…to their advantage."

"Do they say 'please'?"

The expression on his face said it all, but Will answered anyway. "I'll assume you're kidding."

"Excellent assumption. I can see why they consult you."

Rachel was watching Will intently. She seemed to soften the more nervously he behaved. "It's an honor to meet you, Special Agent Graham," she said, standing too and shaking his hand. "That was a pretty tough case you wrapped up, catching Hannibal Lecter. Would you care to join us for a drink?"

"Uh, no…thank you, no. What I'd like is to…" Will took a deep breath, looked ready to bolt.

"Find Tim?" she finished for him.

He nodded again, jerky motions.

"Why are you so keen to head out there tonight?" asked Raylan.

"The killer didn't…finish the scene. I think he'll be back." The Marshals had to lean in to hear him. "And I want to see it at night...the way he did."

"Raylan, why don't you walk Special Agent Graham over to Tim's apartment," Art suggested, softening a little himself. "Then maybe you and Tim could run him out to Olive Hill together. I don't want another freaky murder going on out there. They've already had one and it might upset the good folk of Carter County if they got another in the space of a month. Three of you should be able to handle him if he shows up. Right?" he asked Will for agreement.

"Three is…more than enough. Thank you." Will turned to go, turned back, added a compliment, "Especially if all your people shoot as well as Deputy Gutterson."

"From time to time," Raylan replied, smiling, picked up his hat and led the way out.

"Raylan," Art's voice carried a warning with it, "I'd be just as happy if you _didn't_ get to prove that to Agent Graham."

* * *

The FBI consultant was wound so tightly it was putting Raylan on edge. He threw a name out into the night hoping for some conversation. "Hannibal Lecter, huh?"

"Yeah." Will stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked a little faster.

Raylan decided if that was all he was going to get then it was invitation to poke around and have some fun. "You must get a lot of jokes like 'Hannibal, the guy with the elephants'?"

Will grimaced. "You have no idea."

"Oh, I beg to differ. That one's gone around the office a hundred ways."

"I bet."

"He really ate people's livers? I don't even like cow's liver so I can't imagine eating some poor idiot's…" Raylan gestured at his belly, searched for a better word but failed, "…liver. It'd be enough to turn you off your dessert."

"Not just liver. Brains, lungs, kidneys, intestines."

"I've never had lung."

"I've never tried lung either. At least…I don't think I have."

"Let me give you some advice - you really should sound more certain when you're discussing that kind of thing with someone."

Will stopped, looked up the side of the building they were walking past. "I'll...take that under advisement. But you have to understand, we all…ate…at Dr. Lecter's table…all of us…at some point. There's…there's no way of telling what was being served." Will passed his eyes briefly over Raylan's face, long enough to see a look of disgust.

"Shit."

A humorless snort and Will wagged a finger at Raylan. "Never, never _shit._ Dr. Lecter was an excellent cook…no, no more than that…he…he was an extraordinary _chef."_ He paused a moment, remembering, then added with a smile, "And he made…fantastic desserts. It'd be…difficult…to be turned off his desserts."

Raylan digested that piece of information. "So you really have no idea if you ever…?" He motioned toward his mouth. "No way to find out?"

Will shook his head and continued walking. "I'm not sure I care to find out."

"Talk about the elephant in the room."

"Ha. Yeah."

Tim's apartment was a quiet block further. Raylan had enough to think about to keep him from poking any more. He stopped at the doors of the building, pressed the code and waited for an answer.

"It wouldn't be a good thing for me if our conversation ended up in the paper."

Raylan turned to face Will, pushed his hat back and said, "I've been skinned a few times by the press. I don't give them jack."

A nod. "Miami."

"Shit. Does everyone know about that?"

Will didn't reply, eyes skittering over the intercom panel. "Maybe he's not home."

Raylan stared at the list of apartment numbers, frowned, then pulled his cell and dialed Tim's.

He answered after the first ring. "Why are you at my door, Raylan?"

"Why don't you answer the buzzer and find out?"

"'Cause I'm answering my phone. What do you want?"

"A romantic evening drive to Olive Hill. I've got an FBI consultant with me. I know three's a crowd, but…"

There was a pause that hung just a beat too long. "Buzz again. I'll let you in."

Raylan smiled at Will. "I think he sounded enthusiastic, don't you?"

* * *

Raylan made himself comfortable. The odd night over at Tim's apartment drinking away a frustrating case or celebrating a gratifying one had allowed him the opportunity to take ownership of a favorite spot on the couch. It was occupied currently by a collection of open magazines, all technical, all guns and ammo types except for a recent edition of The Economist hiding in the middle. He swiped them up along with a pen and dumped them onto the coffee table beside the plate of crumbs and the mug with a mouthful of cold coffee at the bottom and plunked himself down.

"Clear a seat," he said to Will and gestured magnanimously at Tim's usual spot.

Will hesitated just inside the door, eyes analyzing and filing away every detail of the place. He tried to stop himself from creating a profile but it was a difficult trait to just shut off and besides he was curious and he'd always found he couldn't say no to his curiosity, a demanding and controlling mistress. The apartment was impersonal unless you knew how to look and to Will it seemed a little forced, like the owner was hiding in here somewhere and had camouflaged his nest in neutrals to disguise himself. He searched for clues. The furnishings were a thrown-together stew of comfortable pragmatism. If there were any evidence of the purchaser in them at all, it would be only that they were honest choices, careless and functional – a couch needed, check, a TV, check, chairs and a table and a coffee table for magazines and books and breakfast dishes so the occupant could sit in front of the television mornings and watch the news, check, check, check.

Tim walked out of the bedroom at that point, pulling a T-shirt on. "Are we in a hurry or can I make us some coffee for the trip?"

Raylan looked at Will.

Will let Tim's question soak in slowly, distracted, eventually answered. "Coffee. Coffee would be great."

"How do you take it?"

"Black, thank you." Will assumed the question was for him.

"Okay."

Through the open bedroom door, he could see the bed, neatly made, clothes folded on one end, another stack of books and magazines on a side table, again neat, not at all like the casual chaos of the living room. Will dismissed the anomaly as a military habit and flicked his eyes back to the main room. His gaze was immediately drawn to the computer table in the back corner. _There,_ there was the center of activity, not the TV. That's where Tim went first when he came in, though it was awkward to get to. His sidearm and star and wallet were sitting by the keyboard, the lights flickering on the chassis, on and in use. Will visualized it - Tim checking email immediately when he got home, an active online life. A photo in a frame stood out among the papers set beside the monitor, a visual for the virtual, Afghanistan and desert camo, a group of men, a collage of helmets and rifles and a grin or two. Nowhere else in the room was there anything personal, nothing even hinting at a past, or a present beyond work. Hard to let go of, those ties, that depth of camaraderie, the violence knitting together forever an understanding and a compassion. It'd be a constant search to reconstruct that closeness, the shallowness of day-to-day living shutting you down.

Will took a few steps closer to get a good look at the photo, trying not to be obvious about his scrutiny, leaning a little to see it better, too ashamed of his curiosity to walk around the couch and actually pick it up. He could tell it was Tim in the middle of the pack, outted by the grin; he was putting on 'the face.' Will imagined the raised eyebrows under the helmet, imagined the jaded eyes beneath the lenses of the Oakleys matching the jaded and forced smile for comedy, imagined it falling away unsupported once the photo was taken. It was a good likeness of him even completely covered in gear and Will turned and walked softly into the kitchen, wanting a glimpse of the real thing in his city marshal camo for comparison.

Tim was leaning against the counter waiting on the coffee, turned his head to see who was intruding on his last few minutes of solitude and their eyes rested together comfortably, a full lifetime of acceptance. It was a direct and open conduit catching both of them off their guard. Tim looked away first.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	8. Chapter 8

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Eight**

"Bob brisket."

"Chuck à l'orange."

"Frank tartare."

"Chile con Carla."

Raylan and Tim giggled.

"Beef...Wellington," Will added in a quietly disgusted voice from the back seat after listening to the Marshals banter on the topic of human dishes for a quarter of an hour. "Works without substitution."

"Good one," Raylan complimented.

"This is incredibly inappropriate," Will sighed. "But oddly…amusing."

"Do you think a judge could impose veganism as part of Hannibal's punishment?" Tim questioned.

"That would be…incredibly appropriate," Will replied, "but unlikely. It's too creative for our staid federal court system."

"Maybe we could go barbarian and just cut out his tongue," Raylan suggested.

"Make him eat it," added Tim. "Though he'd probably like that. Bet he has a recipe for cow's tongue he could use. Can you even eat without a tongue?"

Raylan's face wrinkled. "You're sick."

"I'm sick?" Tim looked sideways at Raylan then back to the dark road. "Who's the one that started all this? If I remember correctly, you did. You asked what seasoning is best with pancreas."

Raylan shrugged. "It's a fair question. I wouldn't even know how to look it up."

"Google." Will and Tim answered at the same time, caught each others' smiles in the rearview mirror.

"We're almost there," Tim said, turning off the highway. "You want to go at the cave the way they did or park closer?"

"I want to follow his...exact...movements."

"Okay." Tim took the next turn and two more and bumped along a dirt road for a mile before pulling over. "In the footsteps of The Chess Master," he said as he opened the door and climbed out. He swatted a mosquito on his forearm. "Lovely night for a stroll."

"I'll bet that's not what the killer said to his victim," Raylan commented.

"Likely not," Will agreed.

"What _did_ you say that night, Tim?"

"Oh, I think I said something like, 'Lovely night for a stroll and a skinning.' A little different, you know, add some flare, bit of drama."

Will was getting numb to the teasing from the Marshals about Tim being a suspect. He took it in stride. "Of course, if you laid out your intentions like that, your victim would most likely try to fight his way free. No, that's not how it happened. He had to have some scrap of hope to go quietly like he did. The killer had to give him a reason to believe he'd get out of this alive."

"I think it's a bit rude the way he's always talking about you in the third person, Tim – 'the killer.' It's like you're not even here." Raylan tut-tutted.

But Will missed the jab; he had shut them out, stood a moment, eyes drifting around the dark forest. _"Let's play a game,"_ he said softly, in a voice not quite his own. _"Winner take all."_

Tim and Raylan exchanged a glance.

"This is what he does," Tim explained. "He plays at psychopath."

"I don't want your job," said Raylan.

"I already told him as much." Tim turned and headed into the forest. "It's this way."

Tim took lead – he was the only one of the three who had been to the cave along this route and he knew the area better than any of them. Raylan was the Lexington office's only Kentucky native but he had spent most of his time, both as a kid and as a Marshal, in the southern part of the state. Tim grew up in Ohio, in a small iron town just the other side of the river, only a stone's throw from the Kentucky border and a short drive to Olive Hill. The Appalachians looked the same there as here, so did the economy and the people. Tim loved it and loathed it much like Raylan loved and loathed Harlan. They had discussed the differences once over beer and bourbon, north Kentucky versus south Kentucky – a bit less twang, iron rather than coal, small variances in the weather. Welcome to the Appalachians. It really was beautiful country.

The moon was waning, a crescent with little light to offer. Each man was armed with a flashlight, pointed down to keep the night vision sharp. Will was focusing his awareness on his surroundings and Tim and Raylan sensed that silence was appreciated at this point and kept their talking to a minimum. Will didn't expect to find any physical evidence on their night march; he was hoping for a feeling, a leap in logic to link something together with something else and bring them closer to understanding their prey, the hunter that they now hunted, this new monster.

Tim watched the path; Raylan watched the forest, sidearm unclipped, trigger hand on alert.

They were in sight of the rocks that opened the side of the hill and embraced the cave when they heard noises and a shadow of hurried movement took them by surprise to their left – fast footsteps. All three reached for their sidearms but only Will drew, gun out, then arm out, swinging wildly in the direction of the sounds. Tim lurched back toward him and grabbed his gun arm, gripped it hard and pushed it down. He kept a firm hold on Will, watched Raylan step off the path and disappear.

"Kids?" Tim called after him.

"I suspect." A rustling. "Give me a minute."

Tim had his fingers wrapped tightly around Will's wrist and Will was struggling against him, caught up in his imagination and his instincts.

"Stop," Tim hissed and yanked Will around to face him, "If Raylan hasn't drawn yet, there's nothing to shoot at."

Will was still breathing heavily but he didn't resist when Tim reached over and took the gun from his hand and slid it back into the holster.

"Trust me, if there _is_ something to shoot at, you'll know. Raylan'll put it down before you even see it." Tim felt Will relaxing and loosened the grip on his arm. "Okay?"

Will nodded and Tim let go.

"Okay?" Tim repeated the question, wanting to be certain.

"Okay. Yes. I'm okay. If you…trust him…then…"

Tim smirked. "Yeah, I trust him…at least on any target under ten yards."

A snort from the blackness beyond the flashlights and Raylan's voice carried through the trees, "I heard that. But just so as you know, I only bring Tim along when we got all day to line up a shot. He's a Sunday shooter – better bring some beer and popcorn and a comfortable chair for the wait." There was more rustling in the dark, then, "Doesn't miss, though. I'll give him that."

Tim tilted his head, said quietly to Will. "The implication being, he does."

"I heard that, too."

"His eyesight's going but his hearing's still good."

"Tim, don't make me come back there and shoot you."

Tim chuckled. "See? Like I said, he has to get within ten yards."

"Shhh." Will held out an arm and motioned for silence. "Do you hear that?"

Tim looked down, focusing his other senses. From the direction of the cave came a soft noise, not natural to the forest. Will took off at a run.

"Hey!" Tim yelled a warning. "Shit." He followed, cursing. "Stop! Will!"

Will had his flashlight up, searching for the opening to the cave. He had slowed down enough for Tim to catch up, his gun in his hand now. The noises were coming from inside and Tim half expected a frightened animal to come charging out when Will found the entrance and flashed a bright beam into it. There was only room to walk single file past the rock walls at the mouth and Will charged through first, reckless.

"Fuck." Tim was ready to club the profiler himself, saving whoever or whatever was in the cave the trouble. He pressed closely behind Will, trying to pass him, hurried to clear the opening, stepped quickly in front of Will, raised his gun and stopped abruptly. "What the hell?" He dropped his arm fast, holstered. "Shit."

"Not quite what I was expecting," Will stated, a wry look for Tim, then he knelt down in front of a young boy, ten or eleven years old, trussed up and shaking. "What are you doing in here? Are those your friends outside? Playing a trick on you, maybe?" He coaxed gently with his voice, calming, reached around and untied the boy's hands then his feet. "If they're trying to scare you, they did a good job." He shook his head in sympathy and smiled.

The boy nodded in tight small jerks. "There's a murderer," he gasped, breathless, eye's popping. "They said he'd get me."

"Don't worry," Tim assured him. "He's long gone. Come on, we'll take you home." He handed the boy Will's flashlight to hold and hoisted him up onto his feet.

"I wet myself." He looked close to tears.

Will and Tim both looked at the patch of wet dirt, the wet jeans.

"Uh…that's…" Will didn't know what to say.

"That's normal," Tim finished the sentence. "The guy who was murdered in here – he pissed his pants, too."

"Tim?"

"In here."

Raylan sauntered into the cave with company, two more boys, a fistful of jacket in each hand to keep them in tow. They were sobbing. "Look what I caught – a brace of mischief."

"There, see." Tim gestured at Raylan's catch, grinned for their small victim. _"You're_ not the one crying like a baby."

He got a smug grin back.

* * *

"So, which one were you?"

Tim had dropped off the boys then Raylan at his bar and now he and Will were sitting in the car outside the hotel. He didn't understand Will's question, looked over, confused.

"Which one…of the boys," Will clarified. "Growing up…which one were you?"

Tim nodded, making sense of it now. "Uh, I'm the third of four. It depended on the week."

"Ah," a smile for the picture, "I'm...an only child and…invariably...I was the one tied up in the cave." He grinned, a bit embarrassed by the confession. "Brothers? Sisters?"

"Four brothers."

"God, your poor mother."

Will was surprised when Tim reacted to the statement with another version of 'the face.' It seemed misplaced, unless the mother wasn't around enough to cultivate the devotion typically associated with sons. Or maybe she wasn't around at all, no one to cry to like a baby.

The evidence was all there if you just knew how to look.

"I know it's been a long day and…well…you probably don't...we've already…_I've_ already done my share of drinking but do…"

"Yeah, I want a drink." Tim opened the car door and got out quickly, leaned back in to say, "Let's order up. I don't want to run into Special Agent Crawford in the bar. Are you sharing a room?"

Surprised, Will sat a moment then scrambled to get out of the car and catch up. Tim was already across the street and heading into the hotel lobby.

* * *

This time Will didn't drink much and certainly didn't try to keep up with the Marshal. Tim was off the clock, pouring himself the next drink and the next, talking through the procedure of joining and playing on the online chess sites. Will watched the glass come up to Tim's lips again and again. Maybe he was still 'reacting' but Will wanted to kiss those lips and he was feeling reckless enough to do it. Eventually Tim stopped pretending he didn't notice and grinned an invitation and Will found himself caught and held, the rare eye contact exhilarating. He put a hand on either arm of the chair Tim was sitting in, leaned forward and stopped.

"_You set your sights on a person you know you can't have, Will." Hannibal Lecter smiled as he spoke with what Will thought at the time was sympathy, maybe even empathy, not the day he burst into Lecter's house and confessed to kissing Alana Bloom, but later, another session. "Alana Bloom will never be a partner for you, Will. She wishes to fix you, but you cannot be fixed. You are what you are. Deep down, you know it will fail. The rejection then is inevitable and you are safe once more in your solitude. In kissing her, you reinforce your behavior, though it appears the opposite." An elegant shrug. "'I tried. What more could I do?' This is what you tell yourself – a rationalization."_

_The astute observation of his character cut. "I don't wish to be alone – whatever you might think."_

"_Perhaps if you were to accept that you truly do wish to be alone then you might not have to be."_

Taking advice from a serial killer and a psychopath seemed reckless, too. Yet Will had to hand it to Dr. Lecter – it was an accurate assessment. He wondered what his former psychiatrist would make of Tim. Would Hannibal say that Tim was another person that Will could never have, more reinforcement of his behavior? It seemed likely. And equally likely that he'd say it just to watch the suffering then slice him open and eat his heart.

Tim reached a hand up slowly, calling Will from his thoughts, and Will blinked and pulled back. He felt his glasses being lifted from his face, watched Tim fold them and set them on the table. Then Tim leaned forward to meet him halfway, kissed him firmly, leaving no doubt.

_He is very kissable. _The sentence formed in Will's head, laughing a warning, but he didn't care, lost to the heat moving outward from the contact.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	9. Chapter 9

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Nine**

If the pounding on the door hadn't woken him, his ringing phone would've – both crashing through the wall of exhaustion simultaneously. It had been a long couple of days. Will sat up, kicked at the tangled sheets trying to free himself and almost fell out of bed. He grabbed at his shorts on the floor. "Coming! I'm coming." He was yanking at his T-shirt, caught up on itself, rolling it over his chest when he answered the door finally.

"Will." It was Crawford; he hung up his phone and said in person, "There's been another murder. It appears to be The Chess Master. We have to go."

"What?" Will mentally grabbed for the words that Jack had thrown at him, tried to piece them back together. They seemed to come at him all out of order.

"He's killed again."

"But…but that's not possible. It's too soon."

Jack provided a thin-lipped grin in reply. "You can tell that to the victims when we get there."

"Where?"

"Georgia, not too far from Atlanta. We've booked a flight. Are you coming?"

Will looked down at his bare feet. "Yeah, yeah." Back at Jack then and he rubbed his eyes. "Do I have time for a shower at least?"

"Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes."

Will shut the door, opened it and leaned out, called to Jack's back, _"Victims?_ He finished the scene this time?"

Jack turned back. "Yes. There are two bodies."

"I was worried maybe he was changing his pattern."

"He is. He's escalating his time frame."

Will closed the door again and stood thinking. _It was too soon. _He scratched his head to loosen his matted hair and remembered the night. A jolt went through him, head to toe – not at all unpleasant. When was the last time he'd shared a bed with someone? College? He glanced quickly around the room looking for signs of his guest, nothing that Jack would've seen from the doorway, in fact, nothing at all. Nothing. It was as if there had never been a Deputy US Marshal in his hotel room well after lights out, well after casual, well after sleepy and asleep. Even the glass had been rinsed and set back on the bathroom counter and what exactly did that indicate? It said something. Or maybe he had dreamed it all. Was this a recurrence of the encephalitis, a flare up – hallucinations and lost time? If it were, at least the hallucinations and the accompanying sensations were enjoyable this time.

He turned in a circle once, a last confused search then sat at the desk in defeat and pulled the hotel note pad over in front of him and a pen and drew a clock, a little paranoia residue that he'd missed cleaning house after his release, after the arrest of Hannibal Lecter.

"It's…" he turned to look at the radio on the bedside table, "…5:47am and I am in Lexington, Kentucky."

He finished the clock, putting the hands at the right position, then, ripping the page off the pad he folded it in half, found his pants and slipped it into a pocket. Satisfied, he hurried through a shower, tossed his belongings into his suitcase and headed to the elevator and down to the lobby.

* * *

Tim woke early, always early. He lay still while his eyes adjusted to the dark, comfortable – he was very comfortable and warm and relaxed. He could hear Will breathing beside him and turned his head to watch the man's chest rising and falling. He rolled over carefully, slowly, and carefully and slowly slid a hand across to Will's pillow, twisted a curly strand of dark hair around a finger. There was a strong desire to cram both hands through the curls, wake him, but he recognized this precipice, staring over the edge, and he was afraid of falling. This was the moment when he still had nothing to lose.

Time to go.

He slipped out of the bed and hunted around for his clothes, keys, quietly closed the door to the bathroom and dressed. A hand on the hallway door, he stopped, turned and studied the room. Leave nothing; lose nothing. He walked carefully back across to the desk, picked up his glass, tiptoed to the sink and dripped enough water into it to rinse it, set it noiselessly on the counter and left.

* * *

"What does this…look like…to you?" Will pushed the piece of hotel stationery across the small table to Beverly, pushed his glasses more firmly on and waited nervously.

Unfolding it, she set her hand on it to smooth it open, looked at it then studied Will. "Are you okay?"

Will shrugged. "I feel okay. Actually, I feel great. Do I look okay?"

"Maybe a little tired." Her voice climbed a step each word, questioning. "Did you sleep last night?"

He managed to look guilty, for no reason. "Yes. Why?"

"You're a lousy artist then," she quipped. "Your clock looks like a four-year-old drew it."

"Nothing unusual about it?"

"Other than you felt the urge to draw one? No. Quarter to six, if I can read your scribble."

Jack Crawford was seated a few rows back, talking on the phone. He hung up, stood up and walked over. Will saw him coming, snatched the paper back and stuffed it away, quickly steered the conversation to less personal territory.

"How fresh are they?"

"What?"

Will enjoyed Beverly's company; she usually kept up with his disjointed often seemingly irrelevant statements but she missed the reference this time, still preoccupied with his clock, his antics.

"The bodies – how fresh are they?"

"Oh." She caught up. "Very. Fresher than Kentucky. Somebody called it in."

Will's confusion showed. "Somebody…called it in? That's odd. Who?"

"It was an anonymous tip." Jack said sliding into the seat beside Will, watching him for a reaction to the information.

Beverly excused herself, anticipating a dismissal, stood up and walked down the aisle to join the rest of the team. Jack moved into her seat. He folded his hands, set them on the table and studied Will's face.

"What?" Will demanded, bearing the weighted silence for all of ten seconds. "I doubt our Marshal had time to race to Georgia and back."

Jack smiled easily. Will took that to mean Tim had slid off the list with this fresh killing. "He could have done it – last night, the night before maybe." He was teasing; it was obvious.

Will huffed impatiently. "I've kept him rather busy the last few days." He felt himself flushing at the extra meaning in the words, hoped Jack wouldn't notice.

Jack's smile grew. He enjoyed getting under Will's skin just that little bit. "Any new ideas?"

"None. At least, none worth discussing. Just…hunches."

"Your 'hunches' are usually worth discussing. Let's hear it."

Will took off his glasses and looked out the window of the jet. Private jets were nice, a rare treat. Unfortunately, it usually meant discussing business for the entire trip, no chance to be alone with your thoughts.

"I think Kentucky…was his golden ticket."

Interested, Jack leaned forward. "What makes you think that?"

"I don't know," Will said quietly, defensive, peevish. His eyes flitted around the interior of the jet. _How did he know?_ He just knew. But how did he… "Because he's leading us away."

* * *

Tim shut the door to his apartment, walked around the couch, dropped his keys beside his computer and sat down to check through his email. He had a routine and he worked hard not to upset it.

The sniper teams were a tight group and they kept in touch. Two in particular emailed regularly – one struggling through a nasty divorce, struggling with a dead-end job, struggling with being back home on a medical discharge, another still in the ranks, twiddling his thumbs and going through the motions, waiting on another deployment somewhere, jaded about pulling out of Afghanistan, jaded period. He kept Tim up-to-date on Ranger news, and Tim was hungry for it, and once a week he would try to convince him to re-enlist. Tim wasn't immune to the lure so he was grateful for a job that kept him busy, or, more honestly, that he used to keep himself busy. He overdid everything and no one complained, especially not Art.

He invited the struggling friend up to Kentucky, enticing him with the promise of a road trip – two bikes and back routes, a shared hobby for small engines. But Tim knew before he hit 'send' that he wouldn't see him. His buddy was back in the world, a world with an ex-wife and maybe even ex-kids and no place for whatever went on over there 'in the shit.' Tim was fine with that – it was fun while it lasted and no one the wiser and no broken hearts. And that was the truth. It belonged over there.

_What happens in Afghanistan, stays in Afghanistan_ – that was their joke. There were so many secrets to be kept from that time that it was easier than not keeping them. So many things censored, so much surreal, the enormity of events in a war made it simple to deny, as if the whole thing hadn't happen – a movie script, not reality. And that was the lie. That script came alive nights; it kept him awake over here.

His thoughts shifted to Will Graham then and he wondered how the serial killer hunter coped with his nights. Being witness to horror, even after the fact, was often as bad as being a part of it – either way it was a loss of control and it was frightening. And Will couldn't pretend that none of it happened. It was his job to dissect every piece of it and explain what should be left unexplained.

Tim had long since given up trying to explain anything.

He had an idea, logged onto his usual chess site and laid out a game, the first five or six moves, Karpov vs Kasparov, 1985, and sent out an open invite to anyone interested. Then he did it on two more sites. What the hell – why not? He grinned. The Feds would probably be knocking on his door within the week. Either that or a serial killer.

Then he logged off and grabbed a gym bag and headed out – weight training then swimming then work. It was a common enough problem among Rangers, bad knees. Long marches with hundred-pound packs tended to be rough on cartilage and bone, and jumping out of hovering helos with the extra weight didn't help either. The physiotherapist recommended swimming. So Tim took up swimming – 50 laps five times a week, give or take.

He showered at the pool and arrived at work early.

"Skin anyone at chess last night?" Art asked as he walked past on the way to his office.

"I'm not _that_ good."

"Why don't I believe you?" Art stopped in front of Tim's desk, peered over the screen. "How did it go last night?"

"We broke up a notorious ring of ten-year-old pranksters."

"Did Raylan shoot one?"

"Nope. Will Graham tried to shoot Raylan though."

"Really? Raylan piss him off that much?"

"Nah, he didn't try to shoot him on purpose. He was just a bit jumpy."

Art humphed. "Like I said, he's a bit off, that boy."

"And like I said, you would be too if you chased psychopaths for a living." Tim sounded a bit touchy, a bit too defensive for his liking, but Art didn't seem to notice.

"Did he talk at all to you about the Hannibal Lecter case?"

Tim shook his head, no. "Why would he talk to me?" He chewed his lip, chewed on the lie.

"Too bad. I'd love to hear some of the dirt on that one. I'll bet he has some interesting stories to tell."

"It'd be tough to deal with, being close to all that."

Art looked at him funny. "Tim, are you going soft on me? Do you not remember Agent Barkley?"

"Boss, Will Graham's alright, even if he is a bit off…and a Feeb. I take my US Marshals Service sensitivity training seriously." Tim forced himself to look Art in the eye, adding a head tilt and wry comment to deflect any suspicions. "You shouldn't stereotype."

"You are so full of shit. How do you stay so skinny?"

"Fifty laps at the pool most mornings. You should join me."

"What are you insinuating?"

Tim hesitated, but only a second. "That you undoubtedly look great in shorts and shouldn't deprive the ladies of the view."

Art smiled smugly, patted his stomach. "It's true. When are you going next?"

"Tomorrow morning, 6am sharp."

"Have fun with that." Art strolled away to his office, yelled back, "Do the Feebs need you again today?"

"I doubt it," Tim called over. "I've told them everything I know, showed them the sights – the extended tour and everything. As far as I'm concerned, I'm done."

"Good. I got a fresh lead today. I need you and Rachel to get on it first thing. Grab her and bring her in when she gets here."

Tim's phoned pinged just after ten that morning, just after his meeting with Art and Rachel. It was a text from Will.

_In Georgia. Fresh scene. Call me tonight._

Tim deleted it, tossed the phone on his desk and started digging through databases for his case with Rachel.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	10. Chapter 10

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Ten**

JH 'Sloppy' Floyd State Park. Will stared at the sign, ignoring the bustle behind him. The rest of the team were piling out of two rental cars, gathering cameras and equipment bags from the trunks. Jack Crawford was in discussions with an FBI agent from the Atlanta office and the park's warden.

"Let's go, people." Jack clapped his hands to get their attention when he was done his briefing. "Will!" He barked a little louder for his truculent profiler.

Will turned, waved carelessly at the sign. "Who chooses to go down in history with the nickname 'Sloppy'?"

Brian whispered in Jimmy's ear, "This from the guy who's known around Quantico as Will 'Wacko' Graham."

"I always liked 'Give-you-the-willies' Willy," Jimmy joked.

Brian liked Jimmy's offering, laughed aloud.

"I always liked Brian 'the Asshole' Zeller," Beverly snarled, smacked Brian on the head as she walked by. "And Jimmy 'the Geek.'"

Jimmy frowned. "Seriously? You've heard that? From who?"

Brian just smiled sheepishly at her, switching it up quickly to an evil grin for Jimmy when her back was turned.

The park warden took them as far as he could, crammed into his 4x4, then they had a half mile walk down a rarely used path to an old shack, left over from the days when the area was being considered for marble mining.

Same scene, different state. This one was completed. The flayed body was sitting at the table, just like Kentucky, Virginia and North Carolina, a second body was staked to a board, held upright, painted head to foot in white, wearing a white crown. He was the king, observing the battle, drowned in white paint. The autopsy report on each of the previous two kings listed a gallon of paint drained out from the stomach and the lungs.

Jack opened the door and held it, allowing Will in first, then followed; the local agent came in behind. The park warden stayed outside with the rest of the team, not caring to see for himself.

Will stopped just over the threshold and soaked it in, eyes wandering over each body, the chessboard then the room. "Nothing was disturbed?" He turned to ask, kept his eyes down as if searching the floor for evidence.

The junior agent answered, "No, sir. It was our office that got the tip and the door was locked on the outside when we arrived."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, sir. As sure as I can be."

"Thank you."

Will glanced quickly at Jack then, a request.

"Will you excuse us now?" Jack said to the other agent, not a request.

When they were alone, they both stood silently looking at the layout of the chess pieces. They could reset the game from memory. And here it was again.

"It's the same move," Jack finally said what they were both thinking. "The game hasn't progressed from Kentucky."

"No, it hasn't."

"What does that tell us?"

Will didn't answer, stepped closer, walked around behind the body at the table, got up next to the painted king and examined him. "There are flies in the paint." He stuck out a finger and brushed a wing. "He wasn't painted with the usual care or...he wasn't dry when he moved him."

"That's different."

Nodding absently Will turned back to the chess game. "How long was it between Virginia and North Carolina?"

"Six weeks."

"And between North Carolina and here?"

Jack thought a moment. "A little shy of six weeks."

"Five weeks then between North Carolina and Kentucky and only a week between here and Kentucky."

"Not much of a pattern."

"Hard to recognize a pattern with only four terms in the sequence…or…three." The last word came out almost a whisper.

"Three?"

Will ignored the question again, said angrily, "This is rushed…or…I don't know…sloppy. This is sloppy, just like the name on the park sign." He sounded as if it was a personal insult, a disappointment intimately felt.

"Why?" asked Jack. "Why did he feel rushed?"

"Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it?" Will was sharp with his reply, angry along with the invisible killer still inhabiting the room.

"I'll leave you alone," Jack responded, recognizing that Will wasn't entirely himself just then, already cloaked in empathy for a murderer. "Come out when you're ready."

* * *

Will wouldn't talk when he came out, wouldn't talk on the long car ride back to the city; he brooded, paying little attention while the others expounded their theories, huffing his disdain when he did listen, finally speaking back at the hotel room in Atlanta, irritable, "No, he was _not _interrupted. He is _angry._ Something or someone has…pissed him off." Will sliced at the air with an imaginary knife. "The skinning this time is sloppy, messy, not rushed so much as…aggressive. Who's going to bother him out there? He wasn't…interrupted. He's frustrated."

"Maybe he's making up for the incomplete job in Kentucky? Dealing with his frustrations and doing it properly this time," Jimmy speculated. "That would explain why he's repeating the chess move."

"Maybe," Will replied, thinking. "But it doesn't explain why he's angry…still…a week later."

"From the beginning," Jack brought them back into line. "What do we know?"

Will tuned them out again, sat petulantly on the arm of a chair with his back to the room, leaning away, his nose almost pressed to the window, looking out over the buildings and wishing he were somewhere else, somewhere quiet, somewhere he could think without being bombarded with useless chatter. He longed for a bourbon and the company of a certain Kentucky Marshal, someone who didn't talk just to hear his own voice.

"Will." Jack had come up behind him, interrupting his thoughts. "What's bothering you?"

"I can't…think…here. And I'm starving. I'm going back to my room and order up a steak or something. I need some quiet to get my thoughts in order."

Jack looked Will over, submitted. "Fine. The bodies from both scenes are on their way back to Virginia. Take the night. We'll leave you alone on the flight tomorrow. Have some ideas for me when we get back to Quantico."

Will nodded and Jack let him go.

* * *

The room was too warm maybe. Or maybe he'd spent too much time in airplanes and cars the last three days. Maybe he was just hungry. Will paced his hotel room and waited for his food to arrive. It was like there were a hundred invisible biting insects flying about, irritating. He couldn't see them, but that didn't mean they weren't there. He swatted at the air, a reaction to his own frustrations, trying to clear his head. There was something right in front of him that he was missing, clearly not insects – he wasn't that crazy – but if not insects, then _what?_

His thoughts defied his attempts to organize them, came at him randomly and agitated. The missing king, the sporadic timeline, the glances of distrust and concern from the team, the flies in the paint, Georgia, Kentucky, the glass rinsed and replaced, the look – raised eyebrows and a smile for comedy. He couldn't tune any of it out. It was his talent, his 'gift' as Tim put it, his curse.

Will sighed and flopped down on the bed, fell onto his back. He knew what the empty glass meant; he just didn't want to admit that that was all it was – hello and goodbye. Cold images from the crime scenes intermingled with warm glimpses of his last night in Kentucky and he lingered longer and longer on the latter. The very different sensations and thoughts fought for his attention. He wasn't going to unlock any puzzles that way, either about the case or his feelings for the Marshal. He gave in finally, let Tim Gutterson push The Chess Master and Jack Crawford clear out of his head.

It had been so easy, so familiar, like catching up with a long-lost friend though he was sure they'd never met before. He couldn't remember ever being so relaxed with anyone. It was liberating. It was exactly like the cool warmth of solitude, but better, more like living. The old solitude was a closed, stale box; in this new solitude, you could feel the air.

Apparently Dr. Lecter's assessment was very accurate. He reached for his phone and checked messages. But he knew before he looked that there wouldn't be one.

He closed his eyes and pictured Tim sleeping – he'd drifted off first. Will got the impression Tim didn't sleep well nights and he wanted to find out if his hunch were true. He wanted a closer look at that tattoo as well, the one on Tim's chest. He'd spent some time tracing the lines of it but had no idea of its significance. There hadn't been time last night to ask, too busy with other things and then so relaxed, lying with him, drifting off, it was all so familiar. It was the familiar that you feel when you're dreaming and nothing is familiar but you know it anyway, intimately. How could you not know it if you created it? It was the sort of familiar that he could get used to.

Familiar. The phone call tipoff twigged something familiar. Will assumed the call was made by the killer, leading them away from Kentucky. Maybe that was true, but why the change in the timeline? Always there were two victims with no traceable connection between them. Always they were killed separately: the seated victim flayed at the scene, the watcher murdered somewhere else and carried in. Always the white king was a man with money and the chess player was a loser, in life and in death. Hunting down so particular a prey took time. And there was no time between Kentucky and Georgia. Where was the white king?

His dinner arrived with a knock on the door and a call of 'room service'. The tray was wheeled in and Will tipped the server and shut the door behind him. He poured the bourbon first, took a sip and regretted ordering it – it tasted like Tim Gutterson. He licked his lips to prolong the memory, and lifted the cover from his meal. The aroma of meat drifting up from the plated steak brought up the image of Hannibal Lecter. His appetite disappeared. He grabbed his wallet and headed for the elevator.

Jack Crawford answered the door when he knocked, surprised to see him back. "Will?"

Will brushed past, stood in the entranceway to the room. "The tipoff phone call – when was it made again? In relation to the murders."

"It's impossible to say for certain, but the time of death of the flayed victim and the time of the call were within a few hours – one side or the other."

"Who would know, in that short a time?" Will studied the floor. "Where's the white king, Jack?"

"We've discussed this. The Marshal showed up. The killer didn't get a chance to…"

"No, no. I think…I know…that the king is set up before the game starts. He's there to watch. It's his father…maybe…and maybe he was always judging – wealthy, imperious. He's re-enacting his relationship with his father. Do you see?"

Jack nodded slowly, understanding. "So where's the white king in Kentucky?"

"Exactly." Will looked up. "I think it's a different killer."

"I thought you said it was his golden ticket."

"I think it is, but the golden ticket of a different killer. I think The Chess Master was…is…angry at being copied. That's why…" Will gestured out the window nodding, his thoughts racing ahead of his speech.

"Another copycat?" Jack's face broadcast his doubt.

"Why not? It's common enough."

"The game was copied _exactly."_

"It could've been leaked."

"Leaked." Another look of disbelief. "By whom? We've kept the details of the game very close."

"Someone inside."

Jack huffed, turned to look at the rest of the team. "Which one of them do you suspect?" he asked facetiously.

"I'm thinking...even more inside. Someone close to the killer."

"Will, this story sounds a bit too familiar to me. Hannibal Lecter cannot possibly be involved." His voice was firm. "He's well guarded and continuously under observation."

"Do not underestimate Hannibal Lecter. We've made that mistake once already." Will looked at Jack and saw him measuring, saw compassion.

"Maybe you need some time off."

"I had some…time off."

"I don't mean in a prison cell, Will." Again, the concerned look.

Will had already opened the door to the hall. "I'm not…crazy...Jack. Where's the white king?" he repeated the question as he walked out.

More agitated than before, Will stepped into the elevator distracted, eyed the floor buttons only after the doors had closed. His finger hovered briefly over the number '7' for his room then dropped down and pressed the button for the lobby. He had the keys for one of the rentals. Jack had given them to him, to allow him some solitude on the drive to the airport the following morning.

They had missed something in Kentucky. He could be there in six hours if he pushed it. He checked his watch. It was only 8pm.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	11. Chapter 11

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Eleven**

"So who're you jilting this time?"

Tim ignored the sarcasm, though the old-fashioned word amused him. He read the text again then deleted it. Will Graham was coming back to Kentucky and Tim wasn't going to think about it unless the man walked into the Marshals Office and up to his desk or showed up at the door to his apartment. He slipped his phone into a pocket.

"Did you ever get together with that attorney up in Cincinnati? I liked him."

Tim pressed a look into the side of Rachel's head until she felt it. She turned to him and lifted an eyebrow. Clearly she wasn't feeling it the way he wanted her to.

"Well, did you?" Persistent.

"No."

"Why not?" she snapped it out, all attitude. "I'd've called him if he'd handed _me_ his card." She pretended to fan herself and got a laugh and a considering eyebrow and a half-smirk. "Don't tell me you didn't think he was hot?" She was pressing him tonight, bored sitting in a car watching a motel. Tim was providing amusement.

"Yeah, he was hot," Tim admitted.

"And so is that young clerk, the new one downstairs. You always get him all flustered."

"Do not, and anyway, he's too young."

"And that bistro owner – you never called him either, did you? Was he too _old?"_

Rachel had radar, a bit like Will Graham but narrowly tuned – social smarts. She could tell you, strictly by observation, who was into whom and how much and whether it was mutual. They had worked a case together when he was new to the bureau that took them into an upper-tier Lexington restaurant. The owner of the bistro, a tall broad-shouldered lady killer, had answered a few questions for them about a former employee. He was pleasant, reserved. Tim had loitered silently at the bar after the introductions, eyeing the selection of liquor and wishing he were off the clock while Rachel did the talking and the coy smiling to get information.

Afterward, out on the sidewalk, she had stopped, studied his face.

"_What?" _

"_He gave me his number – made sure I wrote it down." Ripping off the page, she said, "Here. It's not for me."_

"_Uh…"_

_She huffed. "What is it with you guys?"_

"_Hey, I got no problem if he's gay." _

"_No, I meant, how do you guys know? How do you recognize each other? Can you smell it or something? Is there a secret signal you learn? It'd be nice if you'd share it, at least with us girls. Instead, you just stood there and watched, probably laughing it up while I worked it, wasting my time."_

_He didn't know her that well, pretended not to understand. "I dunno what…"_

"_Just tell me, are you going to call him? 'Cause if not, gimme that number back and I'll call him and I'll do my damnedest to convert him."_

And that was that. She knew, and he never could figure out how. But he didn't get even a hint that anyone else suspected. He liked it that way. _Don't ask, don't tell._ The mentality stuck. _Always have your hand on your weapon._ That stuck too. It was all part of who he was. But it was nice to have someone to talk to and Rachel was as honest as she was discreet.

"Yeah, he was hot," she threw it back at him, flat, bringing him out of his thoughts. "I can't believe you didn't call him. What is wrong with you?"

"I don't really like one-nighters so much." He tilted his head in her direction, caught her eye. "One-nighters usually end up trying to be 365-nighters…or more. I don't have time for that."

"Heaven forbid you have to share your coffee in the morning."

"You blaspheme – besides it's more about having to share my special bourbon." Tim thought about Will when he said it, thought about him grimacing back the first sip of each glass. He squashed a grin.

"You have special bourbon? Is that like a special blankie?"

"Can't sleep without it."

She smiled at the jest. "I've been keeping track. That's the third text today that I know of." She pointed, wagging a finger in the vicinity of his phone. "Each followed by a grumpy face, a furtive look and a determined pressing of the delete button. Who is he? Or, maybe I should be asking 'who is the doomed-to-disappointment _she?'"_ She waited a beat or two while Tim stonewalled, then, "Shall I guess?"

"It's no one you know."

"It_ is_ someone I know or you wouldn't have any qualms about telling me." Rachel ran the tips of her fingers across her lips and a grin appeared in their wake. "Special Agent Will Graham. Mm-hm. Nice curls, pretty face, didn't get a good look at his ass."

"Fuck off."

"I love being right."

"I dunno why. I'd think it'd be kinda boring by now."

"Three texts in one day? You must be awfully good in…"

"There's your guy," Tim interrupted, subtle head gesture out the windshield.

Rachel looked up quickly to the motel, spotted a man in a sloppy t-shirt and sloppy jeans stepping out onto the second-floor walkway that ran the length of the building. He lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing in the yellow glow of an outdoor lamp, a frenzy of summertime insects and moths orbiting.

"Well, hallelujah. That's him alright." She leaned over and smacked Tim's thigh. "Stop distracting me with your love life." She pulled her hair out of the tight pull-back, messed it a bit.

They climbed out of the car at the same time, kept up the argument.

"I didn't distract you. You were fucking nagging again," Tim said, just under a yell, a little extra drawl. "I'm fucking sick of your bullshit."

"Screw you, asshole," she screeched back, pitching her voice a little higher than normal, following closely behind him with her finger pointed and jabbing angrily at his back as he trudged the stairs. "This is all on you. If you were any sort of man, you'd've walked away. But no, you're just too fucking stupid and drunk as usual."

Tim teetered on the top step, lurched into the wall. "Leave it alone, already," he snarled. "I'll get it back."

But Rachel kept at him, looking for a fight and looking the part in a fitting tank and tight jeans. "There's nothing I'd like better than to leave it alone, but I got no money now. Where am I supposed to go? I'm so sick of your bullshit. My mama always said you were a…"

"Go fuck your mama," Tim snapped, coming up alongside their mark, next door down. He hunted around in his pockets and pulled out some keys, dropped them, picked them up again.

"Maybe I should. It'd probably be more satisfying than fucking you." Rachel snapped her fingers in Tim's face.

Tim couldn't hold a grin down, quickly wiped a hand up across his mouth to smother it. "Shut up, you stupid bitch," he growled and she hit him, hard, and he turned and shoved her into the man smoking.

"Hey, watch it," he barked, not noticing Rachel's smooth maneuver, glancing off him then stumbling behind him and cutting off his escape.

"Miller Mason?" Rachel said sweetly, reaching for her badge.

It fell in on his head then, the realization that he'd been outted and neatly cornered. He went for something in the back of his jeans. Tim drew quickly, not looking so drunk anymore. Rachel stepped back.

"Careful," she said. "He's definitely better than my mama…with a handgun. Up where I can see them. I'm Deputy Marshal Brooks…"

"Shit…shit, shit."

"…and this is Deputy Gutterson. We have a warrant for your arrest." She reached over as she spoke and lifted his shirt, slid a revolver out from the waist of his pants, then pulled out a set of handcuffs, twirled them on a finger. Tim didn't bother hiding his grin this time.

* * *

"Will Graham?" Rachel teased, thickening a Tennessee sing-song, trying to see the message Tim was reading.

"You are something tonight," Tim shot back. "Marry me?"

It was late, well after midnight and they were both punchy after a long day, a long and successful day. They were standing outside the police station in Richmond, the paperwork signed, Miller Mason tucked away for the night in a cell.

"Not after what you said about my mama." She smacked him. "So, your adorable jilted FBI agent, what does he want?" she pried, nodding at Tim's cell.

Tim shrugged, chewed a lip. "Oh, it's just business. He's heading back up here to look into things a little more thoroughly."

"Uh-huh."

"Shut up."

She got serious. "So what's wrong with him?"

"Nothing. I'm just not ready to go there. Besides, he lives in Virginia."

"I didn't have you pegged as a coward." She expected a comeback, an angry retort or at the very least some sarcasm but he was reading the message again, frowning. "And here comes the 'delete' part," she said.

"Fuck me," Tim swore under his breath.

"What?"

"He's heading up to the scene again."

"What time is it?"

"Almost one."

"Are you gonna go?"

Tim shook his head. "Nah, I'm bagged. I need some sleep." He wet his lips, took two steps toward the car, stopped, walked in a tight circle, head down. "Fuck."

"You want me to come? I don't mind."

"Fuck," he breathed, looked over at her, grimaced, nodded. Something was crawling around in his stomach, scratching its way up his spine and over his scalp. He stood there and she waited. His hand drifted to his side holster, fingers brushing the weapon then moving to his secondary that he hid under his shirt in the back. He gripped the handle tightly. "Fuck," he repeated, "I hate this."

"What? Caring?"

He looked at her blankly and as he did he started fidgeting, his fingers tapping without rhythm against his leg.

Rachel watched it all, strode over and grabbed his arm and pulled him backward toward the car a few steps before he resigned himself to the direction he was going and turned to walk forward with her.

"Alright, let go," he said, snatching his arm back.

"Tell me you don't like him."

"He's a bit quirky."

"So are you."

"I'll drive."

"Uh-uh. You're too twitchy."

"It'll give me something to do."

"Fine." She handed him the keys.

It was a shorter trip up to Olive Hill than Rachel thought it would be. She fell asleep when they hit the interstate and woke up with a start when Tim took a turn fast onto a back road and fishtailed the back end of the car. She peered over at the clock on the dash and huffed.

"I don't want to know how fast you were driving."

So he didn't tell her.

Another car appeared in the headlights, parked at the side of the road, Georgia plates. Tim stopped behind it, barely gave himself time to put the car in park and turn off the engine before bounding out of his seat. He pulled a flashlight and checked the interior of Will's rental – empty. He started into the forest at a jog, following a path.

* * *

"Will Graham."

Will spun around at the sound of a voice. The flashlight he was holding was knocked easily from his hand, his arm suddenly in a tight hold and twisted painfully, on his knees. He felt his handgun pulled from his holster and he was pushed unceremoniously into the dirt.

"Dr. Lecter said you'd show up. I just had to be patient."

The confirmation of his doubts was more like defeat than victory. Will had thought he'd felt Hannibal's hand in this but it was just a feeling until now, one he dismissed as paranoia. He wasn't prepared for a second betrayal. He wished he'd taken time to think this through.

The voice belonging to the gun spoke again, "You are Will Graham, right? Special Agent Will Graham, the guy who caught Dr. Lecter?"

"Is there any point saying I'm not?" Will stood up, faced him.

"No. Not really. I've seen your picture."

"Well, you…have me at a disadvantage. Who are you?"

"I could tell you my name, but it won't mean anything to you. Suffice it to say that Dr. Lecter is my friend."

"Hannibal has no friends." Will used the doctor's first name to taunt.

"You're wrong."

"You're…his patient or…were?"

"He helped me understand myself."

"He helped me understand myself too, but he…wasn't _ever_…my friend. Hannibal doesn't have friends, just…subjects for his experiments."

"You just don't understand him."

Will could only fight back with words. "Oh, you're wrong there. I understand Dr. Lecter better than anyone except himself and…maybe his therapist, but she's dead. He's manipulating you. You see, I also know…that you're not the one who killed the others in Virginia or North Carolina or Georgia. You're strictly," Will spoke disdainfully, "a lackey. Actually a pawn is…probably a more fitting description. You're a tiny piece in Hannibal's grand plans."

That riled him up. "You've got it mixed up. _ You're_ the pawn. Hannibal's been playing _you."_

"He's playing us both, and he's so very keen to put me in play, and often, that I must be a…a knight…at least, certainly not…a pawn. Think about it. No one would pay this much attention to a pawn."

"Whatever you want to think, but tonight, Will Graham, you get to be a king."

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	12. Chapter 12

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twelve**

Tim stepped through the cave opening softly, quietly. It might have been easier if he'd just pulled the trigger then and made up a story to cover his ass later. He had a clear shot. You could do that over there, but not here, not in Kentucky. Here you had to give a warning, you had to give the bad guy a chance to keep breathing, you had to say, "US Marshal. Drop your weapon!" At least he could put a healthy amount of threat into it, and anger.

Will looked lost, handcuffed to a chair, stared at Tim like he didn't recognize him. Maybe it was simply that he was seeing Tim out of context, separated from the intimacy of the night before. The Tim standing just inside the cave entrance was confident and steady behind his Glock, not a hint of uncertainty, cold and hard and in control. This wasn't the Tim that had fumbled with a belt buckle and zipper, heated and passionate, hands eager on skin. Will had forgotten this Tim for that Tim, forgot they were the same.

The man holding Will hostage dropped behind the chair for cover, a thin filleting blade in his right hand slipped up under Will's chin, sharp and already slicing skin and drawing blood, a revolver in his left, pressed against Will's temple.

"What're you doing?" Tim demanded. "I don't know how you think you're getting out of this. Let him go."

"No!"

"You want to die?"

"Not alone."

"Don't worry, you won't die alone." Rachel had stepped in behind Tim, moved to his left, gun drawn. "We're not leaving. Now put the weapons down and you don't have to die at all."

"I'm not doing anything you ask until I've finished my business."

It was a cultured voice; it surprised the Marshals.

"Whatever your business is," Rachel said, calm and level and matter-of-fact, "it'll have to wait. Meanwhile my partner here will put a nice 9mm round through your medulla oblongata, drop you like a stone if you attempt to do any more harm to Agent Graham. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Raylan had spread the story of the Jess Timmons shooting, loving how neatly it played out. He and Tim had bragging rights, saving a pregnant woman. It had become office lore, although Tim remained stubbornly quiet about it. All Rachel had to do was reword it to suit her style and hope Raylan wasn't exaggerating about Tim's skills. She had yet to see him pull the trigger on a warm target with his Glock, only been witness to his kill shots with a rifle. Accuracy with a handgun was a different thing. She had faith in him though, faith in Raylan too, come to that; she'd read the autopsy report from that incident.

The man blinked, glanced at Tim. "I doubt very much he could find my _medulla oblongata," _the voice taunted, "let alone hit it with a bullet from there. Do you have any idea how big that part of the brain is? One and a half, two inches, tops. You miss it and I'm slicing a throat or pulling a trigger before I die. I have no intention of leaving this earth while Graham is still breathing. That is my business here."

Will took a quick breath and held it, reaction to the suggestion, nerves. The man holding the knife leaned forward just enough, reacting himself to the reaction, wondering what was going on that he was missing, and Tim pulled the trigger. It was all the opportunity he needed and his target dropped like a stone and pulled the chair over with him as he fell back.

Tim and Rachel rushed over and cleared the weapons. Tim righted the chair and Will with it while Rachel checked the killer for vitals. She looked at Tim, shook her head and smiled for him. "Nice."

"Yeah, nice," he bit out, unlocked the cuffs and walked stiffly to the cave entrance and out, saying, "I'll call it in."

Rachel and Will watched Tim leave. Will stood up to follow, sank down on the chair again, a bit shaky. Rachel put a hand on his arm.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

A bare nod, Will dragged his freed hands down his face. "Oh, God. Good timing. Excellent…timing, actually. Thank you."

"Are you okay?" she repeated.

Another nod, a bit more definite. "Is…is he okay?" Will looked to the entrance again. "God, I'm sorry to…"

"He's fine. That's just full-on Tim. Give him a minute."

"Full-on Tim?"

Rachel smiled for him. She liked the man despite her professional prejudices, talked to calm him down.

"Tim's got three speeds, at least that I've seen – full-on, something a shade less than full-on, and off." She put a hand on Will's shoulder and tipped his head to the side with the other, inspected his neck above the collar bone. "Are you alright? I don't think the blade went very deep but it's bleeding."

"Full-on?" Will was stuck on it, still staring across the cave to the entrance.

"A hand on his weapon – whichever weapon – alert and edgy and impossible to reach and just the guy you want around in a situation like this." She pointed outside. "That's full-on Tim."

Will flicked his eyes across her face, looking for mirth, found none. "And what's the difference between…"

"Between full-on and a shade less?"

He nodded.

"The amount of sarcasm and a holstered weapon."

"Oh."

"And 'off' – 'cause I know you're going ask – means drunk and grumpy and usually in the company of one of his two best friends, bourbon or beer. I've never seen him 'off' and sober." She gave him a minute to digest the information. "Now, Special Agent Graham, are _you _alright?"

He looked at her again, briefly, nodded, turned in the chair to look at the body. "Call me Will, please."

"Okay – Will – is he a doctor?" She tilted her head at the body but kept her eyes on the FBI agent.

"I don't know. I have…no idea who he is. Why?"

"Because he knew right away what the medulla oblongata was. It's not like people hear that every day."

"Yeah," Will agreed, a little embarrassed that he hadn't picked up on it considering it was his job to pay attention to those kinds of details. He chalked the lapse up to the effects of having a knife at his throat, took a steadying breath and started paying attention.

Scanning the cave quickly, the first thing he noticed was a gallon of paint sitting against the wall, and a funnel. His eyes stayed on them, they were mesmerizing his imagination and for long enough that Rachel noticed and turned to look. When she turned around again to ask about it he was staring back at the body.

"Soft hands, no calluses, trimmed nails. It all supports your theory. A doctor is likely." He looked closer at the neat bullet hole centered between the eyebrows. "That's…that's quite a shot."

"He has to be good for something. He sucks at warm hugs and comfort." She offered it as a warning.

* * *

Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders. He'd shrugged out of it eventually. The air was still warm and thick even in the dark in the cold dead hours of the night. He checked his watch. It had taken the local Sheriff an hour to show up. Crime wasn't on the clock, didn't keep regular business hours. They'd be here a while yet, lucky if they got to bed before the sun came up. Will sighed and continued watching Tim from across the clearing in front of the cave.

The Marshal was giving away very little in his expression or his posture. Tim stood stiffly, face blank, spoke quietly to the deputy taking his statement, the odd head tilt or wry grin for the other LEO. The only hint that he was feeling anything at all came when a plastic bag was held open and he was asked to surrender the weapon used in the shooting. Tim pressed his lips together tightly, unclipped his USMS-issued sidearm, ejected the magazine, ejected a chambered round all with efficient, angry motions, and dropped it into the evidence bag. He stared at it hungrily as the local walked away with it.

Will grimaced, feeling responsible. Felt worse when he saw Tim's right hand twitch once, twice, then slide around to his back and grip the handle of his secondary. Tim let the tired show then, turned away from everyone, walked to the edge of the clearing and crossed his arms, focusing on the blackness. He was still tense; Will could see it in the lines.

Rachel walked up beside Tim and smoothed a hand down his back, one light movement, said something and Tim nodded, then she turned, noticed Will and headed over. Two steps and she stopped, her eyes focusing on something just beyond Will's shoulder. She turned again, away from him, and made her way over to the Sheriff.

Someone took hold of Will's arm. He jumped, twisted, found himself face-to-face with Jack Crawford.

"Jesus, Jack, a little warning would be nice."

"I could say the same to you, but we'll discuss that later." Jack's anger was swirling just below the surface, held in check by the report that a killer had been dispatched. "What the hell happened here?"

* * *

The exhaustion was a weight. Will trudged the sidewalk to Tim's apartment, looking at the street now in the warm and gray light of pre-dawn. If he were going fishing, the early hour would be pleasant, but this morning it only highlighted his tiredness. He was looking at it from the wrong end. He pressed the buzzer for the superintendent's suite, pulled the official FBI business speech. The man let him in, ratty housecoat and slippers, curious. Will waved the badge and headed for the elevator and up. He knocked on Tim's door, not at all surprised when he answered, awake and still dressed and a little hollow.

Tim stood aside and let Will in and shut the door behind him. He looked like Will felt and Will wondered belatedly if this should've waited until they'd both slept a bit.

"I'm sorry," he said, since he was here and it'd be stupid to leave now without saying it.

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I should've been more careful. You wouldn't have had to...shoot him if I'd... I'm sorry."

"He had a knife at your throat," the eyebrows went up, _"and_ a gun to your head. Forget it."

"It doesn't matter. It…you shouldn't have had to…"

"Shut up, okay. Just shut up."

"Tim, listen. I…"

"Shut up! I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to hear it. It's fine."

"No, it's not fine, it's…"

Tim pressed himself into Will, holding him against the wall, running his hands around his waist and kissing him hard just to shut him up. At least, that's what he told himself later when he could think back on it coolly. But the truth in the center of that moment was that he wanted to keep Will for a bit all to himself and all the empty words spoken were carrying the world in with them and getting in the way. He wanted to break out and feel, to have someone look at him and not think he was scratched and dented and understand that behind the cold and unreachable there was something breathing. He liked the way Will looked at him, like he was always watching the breathing. The emotions were painful as they came in a rush and he welcomed them, even knowing he'd deny them later.

But that was later. He moved his hands up and jammed them into the curls and started backing toward the couch.

Will wasn't having any of it. He pushed some distance between them, a few inches to allow a few words.

"I need to talk to you," he breathed. "I know you…"

"Later." Tim's eyes were half-shut, drooping toward sleep. "Later," he mumbled again tiredly, pulled Will up against him a second time, crowding out any chance for words.

Will was too exhausted to stand his ground, surrendered and let Tim pull his shirt out and slide his hands up underneath. Rachel was wrong, he realized. Tim had another speed: languid and sleepy and needy and not drunk. Will took control of the only part of this he could, took a fistful of Tim's shirt and steered him in the direction of the bedroom. He had already told Jack not to expect him up until noon and he was going to sleep right here where he felt some space around him, breathe in some of the air.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: **My apologies to those who haven't had a chance to watch Hannibal (um, guest, whoever you are), but Will Graham was the only one I could easily picture as a partner for Tim Gutterson. Crossovers are problematic. Um...okay...carry on...

* * *

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Thirteen**

The smell of coffee is a civilized alarm, Will thought through the haze of sleep, that and the sound of a voice speaking quietly in the next room was an unusual luxury. Normally he was woken rudely by the buzzer of his clock radio or his phone or the choral barking of his gang of strays or the horrific images of his subconscious. But not this morning. He stretched, sat up, well-rested, a bit muddled still. Daylight was soaking the room.

He slipped quietly into his shorts and eyed the bed, a jungle of sheets and pillows. He chuckled to himself, thinking Tim was going to have a tough time making that back into a proper military rack. Padding softly over to the doorway, he peeked around the corner into the living area. Tim was sitting at his computer, not looking long out of bed himself. He had his head through the neck of a T-shirt, but hadn't gotten it further than that, showered, hair wet and toweled dry, up on end, his phone to his ear, head in his hand and yawning.

"Sure, I can be in then. What? Will Graham?" Tim shot a look toward the bedroom, saw Will standing there watching him, made the face. "Yeah, I can find him." He pointed to his phone then to Will and grinned when Will dashed back into the bedroom, reappearing with his cell and turning it on.

"Okay," Tim said to his caller, "I'll see you in a bit." He set the phone down beside his keyboard. "Your boss has called my boss three times already this morning." He pushed his arms through the sleeves on his shirt. "How much trouble are you in?"

"Plenty, I'm sure." Will was reading through his messages, grimacing. "And I already got an earful last night."

Tim thought about his conversation with Rachel as he asked, "Coffee?"

"Yes, please."

He stood up but Will waved him back.

"No, no. I'll get it. You want some?"

Tim nodded, sat gingerly back in his chair, unsure about this, unsure about anything, frowning as Will disappeared into his kitchen.

"Remind me," Will called out. "Black, right?"

"Uh, yeah, black."

Will came around the corner again with two mugs, had to slalom past the coffee table and the couch, handed Tim his share. "I used to love it with cream. Then I moved…way out from the city. It's a twenty minute drive to the nearest store. I learned to like it black." He leaned on the back of the sofa.

Tim didn't respond.

Will blew on his coffee nervously, his eyes riveted on the rifle and cross-hairs tattoo on Tim's wrist. There were reminders everywhere in the apartment of Tim's involvement in last night's drama. "How hard is this going to be for you?" Will asked.

"What?"

"The shooting."

"It's fine. Rachel was there. Her statement'll make the investigation pretty straightforward."

"That's…not what I'm talking about." Will sipped his coffee, looked surprise that it was decent enough. The thermos-full Tim had made the night he and Raylan took Will up to Olive Hill was much stronger. He took another sip for fortitude then tried to fix eye contact with Tim. "I was wondering how _you _were holding out…with the shooting."

"Me?"

"Am I not speaking English?"

"Yeah, you're speaking English but you're not making any sense." Tim frowned. "What about me?"

"I've done my share of therapy…and...I could probably run a decent session now…with you, but…I hate their tricks. I'm trying to be straight here. Are you okay? You shot and killed a man last night."

"Yeah, I did. You want me weeping about it?" He looked up with wide puppy eyes, then smirked. "Nah, you know I don't think I could even fake it. It doesn't bother me. You're off the hook. You don't have to feel bad, and you don't have to play therapist. I'm good."

Unconvinced, Will took another sip of his coffee, tried to find a different way to come at the conversation. "I'm… Look, I'm still struggling with mine. I have nightmares. I see the guy still, in faces on the street. Garret Jacob Hobbs." He spoke the name by rote, like he was reciting for a history exam, etched into his memory. "How can you not…?"

"How can I not care?" Tim set his mug down and pushed his chair back, facing Will. He thought for a minute, shrugged. "I just don't."

"What do you mean you just…don't? You're not a sociopath or a psychopath. At least I'm reasonably confident you're not."

"Before I feel good about that, just how confident were you about Hannibal Lecter?"

"Uh, that's…that's a fair point. Maybe you are a sociopath." Will twitched a grin. "Though, I hope not."

"Okay, now I'm feeling bad about you doubting yourself."

"Well, then you're not a…"

"Sociopath," Tim finished for him. "Good to know." He snorted.

"I can see it, Tim. I know it eats at you on some level."

Tim thought about it some more, worrying his lip. This is what he didn't want; this is why he didn't share his coffee. "I can't go there. Okay? I don't go there. It's like I'm two separate pieces of string. There's the one that I became at some point, over there," he waved a hand toward the east, "and that's the one that can pull the trigger and doesn't give a_ shit_. And the other one, that one's living in this apartment and showing up for work and not thinking about that and, you know, living the life, right? I tried for a while, fixing the two together. The only way I could do it was to tie myself up in knots. I'm not going there again. I keep it separate."

"I doubt somehow that that's healthy."

"Shit, like I care if it's healthy or not. Shooting people isn't healthy either but sometimes it's the only way you get to play it."

Will looked about to say something else, looked at Tim like he could still see a knot despite all Tim's efforts to keep things from cross-contaminating.

Tim was getting agitated, stood up abruptly, halting any further discussion. "You just got more out of me than I've said to anyone, ever, even the wizard, so shut the fuck up. I'm done with it. Okay? It's done. Art wants us in the office in twenty minutes."

Will dropped his eyes to the floor, didn't look up when Tim took his coffee and headed into the kitchen. _"The wizard?"_ He tried the word out.

Tim stopped, half-turned. "Army-speak."

Will ran the phrase around his head, grinned. "'Off to the see the wizard.' Military psychologist?"

"Bingo."

"You see one often?"

"Just at my discharge, for a psych eval. I'm not stupid. You go see one when you're on the front lines and it's an automatic label – 'fuck up.' You're done."

* * *

"I told your boss you were passed out drunk on Tim's couch." Art was standing with his arms crossed looking like he wanted to be angry but not quite able to summon up the energy for it. He had to hold it in reserve for his own people.

"He'll believe that," Will said, tried on a grin.

"Well, it's believable, especially knowing Tim. Rachel said you two were talking bourbonfest when she left last night. You might as well stick to the truth – hurts less in the long run."

Rachel had smiled warmly for Will when he and Tim walked into the bullpen, laughed out loud with the look Tim gave her.

"Alright, so, everyone has to write a report, from the head of the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit to their lead profiler," looking over his glasses at Will, Art added, "– that's you – and including, but not restricted to, the Bureau Chief of the Lexington Marshals Office – that's me – and Rachel and Tim." He gestured to the chairs by his desk, plunked himself in his. "Sit, gentlemen. I have some questions. Agent Graham…"

"Uh, call me Will, please."

Art smiled politely, "Will..." He leaned back, dropped his reading glasses on his desk. "What possessed you to call _my_ deputy? Did you _have _to?"

"Uh…"

"He knew I'd show up," Tim said, again the face.

"Yeah, I figured as much. Don't get me wrong, Agent Graham…"

"Will."

"Will… I'd rather write a report explaining why my deputy drove miles out of his way for a case he had no business being involved in, drew his United States Marshals Service issued sidearm and used said official sidearm to shoot a man that he had no business being anywhere near – making it inconveniently my business, by the way – than read a report about the death of another LEO. I'm glad he and Rachel were there." Art glanced over at Tim. "He's glad, too. He loves an excuse to shoot someone."

Tim grinned; Will winced and looked at Tim to catch his reaction to Art's statement. There was the face again, and a stiff shrug.

"Alright, let's hear it from the top – one at a time. Will, you first. Tim, go start writing."

Tim stood up. "I'm going to get a coffee."

"And why are you telling me?"

"So you don't start yelling when I don't head straight to my desk."

"Uh-huh." Art narrowed his eyes. "I'm watching you."

An hour later Art was shooing Will out of the double doors to the hallway. "Now straight to the hotel, young man. I don't want another phone call from Special Agent Crawford asking where the hell you are. And I sincerely hope never to see you again."

The tone was good-natured enough and Will took it in stride. He chanced a glance back to Tim's desk but the Marshal had his head in his report and didn't look up.

* * *

"So you shot a serial killer?" Raylan said it out loud. Nobody else had yet. It sounded like a cool thing in a bar after a couple of rounds.

"Yeah, and you cut an arm off yours."

"I did not. Limehouse did that."

"Well, you had a hand in it."

Art choked on his beer. "Oh God, Tim, we've had enough bad puns on that one. Stop it."

"Besides, there was never any proof that he was a certified serial killer," said Raylan, tilted his head back and let the last of his drink drip into his mouth. "Though he had the look."

Tim tapped his glass on the table, set it down finally and pushed it away, empty. "You ever let it bother you?"

"What, the shooting? Depends."

"On what?"

"On how badly I wanted to do it."

Tim looked to Art for his two-cents worth. Art said, "It still bothers me."

That stopped the conversation until the waitress came and they all ordered another drink, each of them feeling a little too sober.

"I thought I might find you here." Three heads spun around. Will was standing behind them, ill-at-ease. "Can I…join you?"

Art spoke first, "Agent Graham, I hate to think of the profile you've sketched of the Lexington Marshals Office if you looked for us first here in the bar."

Will smiled. "Clearly I'm good at my job."

"So it seems. Pull up a chair."

Will did, sat. "I'll get this round," he said. "I think I owe you for all the trouble." He flicked a brief glance at Tim trying to gauge if he minded the intrusion, couldn't get a read.

"I think we should charge the evening up to the estate of your deceased psycho," Art suggested. "Do you think the courts would allow it?"

"He was wealthy enough."

The physical reaction to the statement was comical – all three Marshals leaned in, clearly interested.

"He was a plastic surgeon. I was hoping Rachel would be here so I could tell her. She had him pegged as a doctor."

"Isn't doctor on the list of careers for psychopaths?" Raylan asked.

"Yes, that and…"

"Law enforcement," three voices finished the statement.

"We were just discussing our own experiences in that regard," Art said, turned to Will. "You ever have to pull the trigger and mean it, Agent Graham?"

"Just once. It was…messy."

"Then you can drink with us. Cheers."

"Cheers," Will replied, no cheer in it.

Art stayed for just the one last drink. Tim stood to go after the next one, the other two joining him. They split up at the door, Raylan walking home to his bar, Tim and Will heading in the other direction.

They walked without saying anything. Will hesitated outside Tim's building.

"I've got some nice bourbon upstairs." The voice was amused, inviting.

"I thought I was going to have to beg."

"Nope."

Tim was uncommunicative, unreachable, untouchable, until he closed the door to his apartment behind them.

* * *

xxxxxxx


	14. Chapter 14

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Fourteen**

Tim's alarm woke him this time – 7am and alone. The apartment was quiet. There was coffee made, a recently used mug on the counter, a note scribbled, barely legible: _The door locks automatically – T._

Will dressed and poured himself a coffee and stood in front of Tim's computer holding the photo of the Rangers in Afghanistan for a good and close inspection. Eventually he set it down, carefully back in its place, picked up a pen and scribbled his address in Virginia on a pad of paper and left.

It had rained overnight, but rather than cooling things down the dampness just steamed from the sidewalk as the sun hit and added to the humidity. Will was sweating when he got back to the hotel. He went to his room before looking for the others, showered, changed. Someone had brought his bag for him from Georgia.

Everything felt unfinished, incomplete. His phone pinged, catching him standing in the center of the room trying to decide what to do next. It was a message from Jack. Breakfast in his room, now. It was just after 8am.

There was no reason to ignore the summons though Will was tempted. He drifted down the hall and knocked.

"Good morning, Will."

Jack was alone. Will was expecting the team.

"The others caught an early flight back to Virginia. I wanted an opportunity to discuss the case with you."

There was room service set out on the table in the suite, a thermos of coffee, juice, fruit, pastries. Will was suddenly hungry, and still tired. He walked past Jack and sat in a chair by the table and poured himself some more coffee and selected a muffin and started eating. Jack watched him.

Will said around a mouthful, "Is it just the case you want to discuss?"

Seating himself across from Will, Jack poured himself a coffee. "I'm concerned, Will."

Will cocked his head, made the face, smiled wryly when he realized what he was doing, thought about Tim and the note. "About me?"

"About you. Now that the Chess Master is no longer, I'd like you to take some time off. Get your head straight. Maybe even a month or two."

"The trial starts in less than a month."

"Obviously, you'd have to come in to testify."

"Obviously."

Will set down his food, brushed the crumbs from his fingers, took a good breath and said, "I don't think the man the Marshal shot in the cave is the Chess Master."

Jack sat back, microscopic movements in his muscles performed a dance across his face.

"I've always enjoyed watching you do that," said Will. "You can…roll your eyes without really…rolling your eyes. I get to…see it…a lot. Especially lately." He dug back into his muffin.

"Do you want to quit, Will?"

"We've had this discussion."

"We're having it again."

"No, I don't think so. I want to catch the Chess Master."

"So, tell me, who was that in the cave, then?"

"A…fanboy of Dr. Lecter's. Check Hannibal's client records – he's in there and I think the Chess Master is, too." Will looked at Jack expectantly, looking for the face dance again, decided he looked tired. _Welcome to the club._

"Hannibal's records are missing."

"_All _of them?"

"Most of them."

"I didn't know."

"I hadn't told you yet. Will it satisfy you if I tell you that we'll keep the case open?"

"While I take an extended vacation?"

A single, confirming nod.

"And we just…what…wait for another pair of bodies? That's a great idea. He should have his victims picked out just before I'm ready to come back. It'll help ease me into the work schedule again."

Jack was getting impatient. "Will, as far as I'm concerned, the Chess Master was shot dead in a cave in Kentucky two nights ago."

"Yeah, and I'm the Chesapeake Ripper." Will stood abruptly and walked out.

* * *

Will tried to reach Tim before he left for Virginia – two messages and a text. He got away from Jack at the airport and left another message asking him to look for a connection between the Kentucky victim, 'the disappeared WITSEC guy' as Tim called him, and the man Tim shot, the alleged Chess Master. Maybe he would respond if it were business. Will would've liked to have heard Tim's voice again before he left, a light drawl and surprisingly deep tones, would've liked more, some kind of acknowledgement of a connection or a suggestion for another…another what? Another _date?_

It seemed ridiculous, any expectations in the daylight seemed childish, and Will decided he would be smart to pay attention to the message Tim left him in the empty apartment that morning – _The door locks automatically._

He slept on the plane, avoiding conversation, shared a cab with Jack to Quantico, shared work talk in clipped sentences and nothing else, picked up his station wagon and drove back home to Wolf Trap.

His dogs were glad to see him. He ate dinner on the couch to keep them company, went to bed early, catching up on the hours, woke early. He sat at his table drinking coffee the following morning, thinking, was in his car thirty minutes later on the way to Baltimore to see an old acquaintance.

* * *

Dr. Lecter was seated primly on his cot. The prison coveralls looked less stylish but equally as neat and worn as well as any of his silk and wool suits from his civilian life. He was reading a book, set it down on the small table attached to the wall of his cell, straightened it, lining it up perfectly, squarely, then he stood and turned to face his visitor.

"Good morning, Will." He raised his head and sniffed the air, studied his former patient carefully and carelessly. "You've put on weight. You look better." A knowing smile, small. "And you have a lover."

Will blinked, trying hard not to react though he knew it was wasted energy holding anything back from this man. Even behind bars he was dangerous. Will would never underestimate him. Never again.

"My personal life is pretty dull compared to yours, Dr. Lecter, even with the…addition…of a…lover." He looked at the chair the prison guard had provided but ignored it, choosing to remain standing. It wasn't wise to be rude to Hannibal Lecter.

"I didn't think I would have the pleasure of your company again until after the trial, Will. What brings you here on a Saturday? A game of chess, perhaps?"

The question startled Will; he hadn't expected Hannibal to be so direct. "I assume they're…both…former patients of yours?"

A small movement of his head gave away Lecter's surprise, and pleasure.

"Yes, I know there are two of them." Will gambled on certainty. "Was Kentucky arranged all for me?" he asked. "I'm flattered."

"A knife at your throat – did you feel then what it must have been like for Abigail Hobbs?" Hannibal narrowed his eyes, watching Will intently, watching as Will swallowed hard, a hand coming up instinctively, protectively to his neck.

"Yes," he breathed, upset that Hannibal would reference her at all. His lack of remorse was well-documented, but still disturbing to witness. Will flicked his eyes down the cold hallway to the exit, reminded of the cave in Kentucky. "I didn't much like it."

"And how have your dreams been lately?"

A sneer, and Will responded coolly, "If we're going to start analyzing my dreams, I'm going home. It's…so…very…boring."

Hannibal held his eyes and smoothed the front of his prison jumper, reminding Will of evenings in the elegant office, the shared ideas, still so composed even here behind bars that it made a mockery of Will's attempt at disdain. Will looked away again, again disturbed, cursed his own feelings.

"So, Frederick Hayes was thwarted by a US Marshal – a taste of the Wild West. It's a thrilling tale. Growing up in Europe as a boy, I was always fascinated by stories of the American West, gunslingers and outlaws, cowboys and Indians, though today we would say 'First Nations Peoples,' of course, and of course, in Europe, we played Indians and cowboys, always fighting to be the Indian, the Noble Savage."

"We're all savages, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal pressed his lips together, acknowledged the truth in the statement with a small bow.

"Yes, he was…thwarted…by a US Marshal. I was reckless...as you'd imagined I'd be. Did you suggest the plan?"

Hannibal's smile grew in miniscule and telling movements, another wrinkle at the eye, more tuck at the corners of the mouth, all neat. "A difficult shot, I hear, no room for error. He has a steady hand."

Will nodded, his suspicions confirmed, confirming, in return, Hannibal's statement. "I was lucky the Marshal showed up, or…we…might not be having this conversation."

Hannibal stepped softly and deliberately to the bars separating him from his prey, coldness emanating across the space between them. "I do not believe in luck. Luck is a gambler's dream. I believe in skill and preparation. Is he an understanding lover, Will? Or does he have his own demons that drive him to solitude? How many kills, do you suppose? What souvenirs did he bring back with him from Afghanistan?"

Will was not prepared for so aggressive and complete an intrusion. He twitched a shrug and involuntarily backed up a step and regretted the movement as soon as he'd done it. Hannibal's smile morphed from mimicked social pleasantry into something feral, pitiless.

Will turned and left quickly, too late now to take back anything he'd given away. He'd gotten what he came for, confirmation of Lecter's involvement, confirmation of a second killer, but as trade for the knowledge, he'd given up much more.

* * *

"I listened," Jack Crawford said, turning away from the verbal onslaught, "when you told me about your suspicions. I went with Dr. Bloom yesterday to visit Hannibal. He gave no hint of any knowledge of this current case."

"Oh, he knows – he hinted all over the place with me." Will gestured violently.

"You went to see him?"

"Yes, I went to see him. He asked…if I…wanted to play chess; he mentioned the man shot in the cave in Kentucky by name; he knows about…Deputy Gutterson."

"Will, you're tired. Maybe you let these things slip. What else might you have told him?"

"Fuck you." It was said softly, without much heat.

It was convenient that Will was officially on vacation. Jack would likely forget the vulgarity before Will arrived back in the office in eight weeks, at least the verbal transgression would have diminished to insignificance. Will wasn't going to take it back. A sliver, down to his core, was angry, would never not be angry. He walked out of Jack's house.

* * *

Will jabbed his finger for the sixth time, stuck it in his mouth to stop the blood dripping on the fly he was tying. He tossed the tweezers on the table, giving up for the day, picked up his cell looking for messages that weren't there, dialed again, waited, left another message, tossed the phone down too. Standing, he paced the room, stopped at the door to let the dogs in, scratching. As they ran past him into the house he sighed, glanced at the clock on the stove. His gang of strays arranged themselves in front of the hearth, looked at him. Will looked back.

"Sorry guys, I'm going to have to leave you again. Do you want me to call Harry to look after you?"

The Jack Russell barked.

"Okay, Harry it is." Will picked up his phone again, dialed his neighbor to make arrangements, packed an overnight bag and locked the door on the way out.

* * *

"What're you doing here?"

Will had woken with a start when someone rapped on the window of his Volvo, rolled it down to a puzzled greeting from Tim. He opened the door and stepped out onto the road to talk.

"It's the only...way to speak to you, it seems – face-to-face. You don't answer your phone."

Tim frowned. "Let's get this straight now, okay? I don't do this." He gestured between them.

The words weren't harsh; they seemed a little desperate to Will's ear. He made the face for Tim and said, "Me neither. That's…quite a coincidence, don't you think?"

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	15. Chapter 15

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Fifteen**

"Hannibal Lecter knows who you are. He knows your name, your history. He knows about us."

His head was tilted, eyes squinting in the early morning sunlight. Tim looked to be giving the information some serious thought. "Did you sleep in the car?"

"Yes."

A nod – Tim wiped a hand across his mouth. "It's Sunday. I go to the range Sunday morning. I was just leaving."

"Did you not hear what I said?"

"I heard you. Hannibal Lecter knows who I am. Okay. So?"

"So…he'll come after you just to get to me."

Tim nodded again. "He's more than welcome to try. Meantime, it's Sunday. I'm going to the range." He puffed out a breath, looked down at the rifle bag he was carrying, wrestling with what to do. "Look, you want to come along? I usually get breakfast on the way out. Unless you plan on driving straight back to Virginia now that you told me what you needed to tell me."

Will felt himself relax for the first time in two days, lulled by Tim's careless manner and the voice that conveyed it. Now that he was here, he really wasn't in a hurry to leave. He was on vacation after all – forced vacation. "Do you have some hearing protection I could borrow?"

Tim grinned – it involved his entire face – remembering. "Yeah, sure. Leave your car here. I'll drive."

His truck was parked on the street. Tim slipped his rifle behind the seats and climbed in, Will following. The doors closed with a thud, steel on steel, all the squeaks and groans included.

"Is this…vintage?"

"Yeah, I think it qualifies. I've done work on it to keep it running, a lot of non-original parts. I doubt it's worth much more than scrap."

"What year?"

"'76."

"It was born around the same time as me."

"That makes you both older than me."

"Great."

Driving around in the old pickup reminded Will of his childhood, simpler days, easier nights. _Sometimes you find yourself in the exact situation you need to be in by accident,_ he thought, enjoying the familiarity of the rough ride. Every mile in the truck, the windows down, loosened the knots he carried. At some point he drifted off, slept soundly until the potholes jostled the pickup, cracked his head on the window frame. He snapped awake, looked over to see Tim swipe a grin off his face.

Tim put the truck into an empty spot on a rough, gravel and mud parking lot off a rough, gravel and mud back road and Will appreciated why Tim didn't bother keeping a newer vehicle. The lot was filled almost exclusively with pickup trucks. Will turned in a circle admiring the homogenous quality of the scene.

"No smart remarks about stereotypes, got it? Just one, and I'll shoot you myself if someone else doesn't do it first."

Will straightened his features, threw his hands up defensively. "I'm…not saying anything."

"Wise man." Collecting his gear, Tim pointed to a small building, the door hitched open, beyond it an open field and the popcorn sound of rifle fire.

The man behind the counter looked up when they walked in, a well-used smile for Tim. "Mornin', Guts. How's it going?"

"Oh, things are good, except there's a notorious serial killer who knows me by name."

"You mean Crusty? I thought he was deployed again. Is he back?"

Tim snorted at the misunderstanding, moved with it. "He never left. Got an email from him last week. They got him at Benning with the new guys."

The range owner's eyes widened at the idea. "He's training the fresh meat? Holy shit. Who's idea was that?"

"Yep, he's training and he's bored," said Tim. "Whines constantly. Misses the dust. Wants me back in to suffer with him. He's hoping for a move on Syria."

"He's an idiot."

"That's what I tell him."

He nodded at Tim's rifle case. "Shooting old faithful?"

"She's not old – she's experienced and gorgeous and all mine."

The range owner laughed and tapped the worn wooden counter for luck. "I hope she holds up for you." He waved Tim closer. Leaning over he said quietly, "See the fellow out on the range with the kid?"

Tim turned to look, huffed, knowing what was coming. "Yeah."

"The kid's good. The father came in a couple of weeks ago asking about you."

"How does he know about me?"

"Word gets out. Anyway, he's been bugging me to…"

"No."

The owner straightened up. "That's what I told him you'd say, but I also told him I'd ask. He'll probably bother you later, send him to me if he does and I'll have a chat with him."

Tim turned and studied the pair again. "I don't think I've seen them here before."

"The kid does the shooting circuits. Apparently they heard about you, asked around to find out where you shoot and came by to see if…"

"No."

"And one more time just to make my day?"

"No."

"Beautiful. Go on then, have some fun."

Tim collected the ammunition he'd ordered and headed for the door.

"Hey, bozo, guests have to sign in."

"What?"

"If you're bringing your guest out to the range, he has to sign in."

"Oh." Tim turned to Will, shrugged. "Sorry, uh, this is Special Agent Will Graham. He's FBI. This is Ted Kressman. He was my range instructor at sniper school."

"Nice to meet you. FBI, huh? Still have to sign in." The owner scribbled Will's name in a book, turned it for him to fill in. "I need some ID. You two working a case together or something?"

Tim nodded. "Serial killer, remember?"

Ted gaped at him for a moment, trying to decide whether to take him seriously, decided not to. Back to business, he asked Will, "Are you shooting today, too?" as he copied out the information from his license.

"No." It came out forcefully from both men.

"My God – stereo. That bad?"

"I leave the…shooting to Tim," said Will.

"That's understandable. I would, too."

Outside, Will asked, "You've never brought anyone up here before?"

"No."

"Would you teach me how to shoot?"

"No."

Will nodded, chuckling at the blunt response, unbothered by it. He'd learned something else about Deputy Marshal Gutterson today and that was satisfying, and he couldn't help feeling a bit pleased about being invited along until Tim handed him some bulky headphones. He read the label on the side, _Ear Defenders,_ and wondered why he'd agreed to come.

Everyone there stopped to watch as Tim lined up his first shot, taking his time, oblivious to being on stage. He squeezed the trigger and every head snapped up range. The shot hit the center of the target. Tim then proceeded to rhythmically fill out a nice grouping at the 500m marker, all touching.

* * *

Will took off his glasses and looked sideways at Tim, measuring the mood. He decided to chance a question. "So, what was he talking about – 'cold-bore cleaned' or 'cold-bore fouled'?"

Tim was agitated, still annoyed. He had finished his shooting and was packing up when the father approached, son in tow. "That first shot," he'd asked without any introduction, "cold-bore cleaned or cold-bore fouled?" He hadn't waited for Tim to answer, had followed up the question with his opinion, stated loudly so those within earshot could admire his knowledge on the subject. "I figure 'fouled.' Too accurate for 'cleaned.' Nice shooting, by the way. I see you're sticking with the tried and true – Remington 700 system. What kind of scope is that?"

Tim had responded with his usual grace – head tilted as a warning, but the man was blind to it. "Only an idiot wouldn't clean his rifle every time he used it. You think I'm an idiot?"

"I didn't mean..."

Tim dismissed the father, said to the kid, "If you know your rifle and you know your ammunition, you can compensate for a cold cleaned-bore shot. But it takes work." He walked away, said under his breath to Will, "And most folk are too fucking lazy to put the time in."

And that's when Will had asked for clarification. He half expected to get shot for his trouble but Tim seemed happy to explain.

"Most rifles will pull your round off somewhat if the barrel is cleaned and cold, a little less if it's been shot and not cleaned – in other words, it's fouled and cold." They were back at the truck and Tim stowed his bags and pulled a scuffed notebook out of the case, opened it and flipped through pages of hand-jotted diagrams and descriptions. "I retest each time I change something – new barrel, new ammo, different temperature, whatever – that way I know how to compensate that first shot. If you want precision and accuracy you got to be meticulous. People think it's some kind of God-given talent. It's not. It's work. I know my rifle."

"Any talent worth having is work."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Why won't you teach him how to shoot?"

"I won't teach anyone how to shoot."

"Why not?"

Tim slumped into the driver's seat, glared at his passenger. "Because they think I'm doing them a favor."

Will thought about that. "Good answer."

"Thank you. I've had lots of opportunity to hone it down to a point."

"One more question?"

"Oh, fuck, what?"

"_Guts?"_

Tim snorted. "Not 'guts and glory' if that's what you're thinking." He started the truck, made the face. "More to do with 'Gutterson' – that and the fact that I used to throw up before every patrol. It got so the guys saw it as some kind of good luck charm."

"Did you get over it eventually?"

"Yeah. But I had to start again after a while – well, I'd fake it anyway."

"Why?"

"Guys died."

* * *

Abigail Hobbs was kissing him passionately and he was enjoying the sensation. She was pushing him backward. Then he was outside the pair, watching, anxious, and it was Tim she was kissing and she was pushing him too, backward toward the wall. They were in the antler room now and she forced her lover violently up onto a rack, piercing right through the tattoo on the chest, and the blood running down turned the shape of it into a man with horns. Will stood riveted to the floor, ineffective, hopeless, turned to see the man with antlers at the door behind him and felt a blade on his neck, a tattoo on the wrist holding the knife. He twisted, expecting Tim. It was Abigail then it was Alana…

"It's not real."

Will pushed up through the blanket of sleep, panting.

"It's not real. Will. Hey, Will. Wake up. It's not real."

An arm slid under Will's shoulders and a hand resting firmly on his arm, Tim spoke calmly, sleepy himself, shaking Will gently.

"Will. It's not real."

"But it is," he gasped, eyes snapping open. "It is." He sat up, both hands up to cover his face. "Jesus, that's the horror of it. It is real."

Tim didn't bother denying it. He pulled his hand through Will's hair and got out of bed, came back with two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. "This is when the stuff really tastes good," he said, handed Will a glass and sat cross-legged beside him. He balanced his glass on his knee, uncorked the bottle, poured some for Will and some for himself, popped the cork in again, steadied his glass with a hand and leaned back to set the bottle on the floor beside the bed.

He held up his drink to toast. "The horror," he whispered in imitation of Marlon Brando, then made the face, just discernible in the light seeping into the room from the city outside.

Will laughed despite his feelings. "The horror," he mimicked.

They downed the shots; Will grimacing. Tim took the glasses and set them on the floor beside the bottle. "Just in case," he said, then he flopped back onto his pillow and pulled Will down beside him and slipped his arm back under Will's shoulders, rolled to face him.

Will turned his head and studied Tim's face in the shadows. Tim's eyes were open, black centers focusing somewhere past Will and on to a corner of the room. As he watched, Tim wet his lips and started talking.

"I read that the book _Heart of Darkness_ isn't just some metaphor for the beast living inside man," Tim said quietly into the dark. "Apparently it was actually autobiographical. It was all about Conrad's real experiences in the Belgian Congo. Doesn't make it any scarier, either way."

"I believe it," Will said, breathing steady now. "You're not…afraid of Hannibal Lecter, are you?"

"No more than I am of anybody else."

"What's the tattoo…on your chest? What is it?"

Tim huffed and it tickled Will's ear. "It's the Pashto symbol for peace. Isn't that the fucking stupidest thing you ever heard? I gave up on it – never finished it. I'd get it removed but I'm too much of a baby to get the hair shaved again. I hate it when it's growing back. Itches like fuck."

"I find it hard to believe that you were ever…an idealist. That is so…desperately sad."

Tim huffed again and Will could see him grinning.

"Come to Virginia. I'll take you fishing."

"Fishing?"

"Fishing. And you can meet my dogs. They'll…probably like you better than me."

"Dogs?"

"Tim, you sound like an idiot."

"Fuck off."

It was Will's turn to grin. He leaned into Tim and kissed him, stirring something.

Tim said against his lips, "Once more – I don't do this. Okay? Just so you know. I go to work tomorrow and you go back to Virginia."

"Tim, you _are_ doing this."

"You keep showing up at my door. That's different."

"I'd like some more bourbon," Will said, wide awake now and determined, if he were going back to Virginia in a few hours anyway, to stay awake until he left.

"Sure." Tim reached awkwardly behind him and picked up the glasses and the bottle.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	16. Chapter 16

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Sixteen**

She walked out of the house, or more like staggered, stopped in front of the Marshals and grinned, yellow-teeth, blouse gaping. Then she reached under her skirt, pulled off her underwear, turned them inside out and put them back on again. She laughed, brash and harsh, pushed between them and continued to weave her way out to the road, turned left and wandered aimlessly in that direction, still laughing here and there, no rhyme, no rhythm.

"It must be Monday," said Raylan, smiled humorlessly for Tim.

"Fuck me," Tim said. "Some days I love this job."

"This one of them?"

"Nope."

"You've set your bar pretty high then."

Tim snorted, turned to look when the woman cackled one last time, watched her stumble into a garbage pail, fall over. She didn't get back up.

"Do we go help her?"

"We'll check on the way out. If she's still there, we'll make a call."

"Okay." Tim was happy to defer to Raylan's judgment on this.

"You want to knock this time? I always get to knock. I should really let you knock once in a while."

Tim tilted his head, not fooled for a minute by Raylan's generosity. "Gosh, Raylan, I'm still not feeling confident about taking the lead. I think maybe you should knock. I'll watch. Maybe I'll learn something."

Raylan pursed his lips and squinted at the steps to the house, the porch floor years ago replaced with plywood and that now rotting and not looking long for the world. But he tapped his hat firmly down on his head and headed up to the front door gamely, looked back at Tim.

"Note the technique," he said, mock-serious. "A firm knock the first time, let them know you mean business."

He rapped smartly, nodded at his partner. Tim looked down at his feet and smirked. The two started giggling, smothered it quickly when the door opened and revealed an elderly man.

"Was that your wife that just left the house?" Raylan asked, all innocence and concern. "She's had an accident, fell down, and we thought you might want to come see."

"I ain't married. Wife passed two years ago."

"Just as well," Raylan said. "Is that your son's wife then, a daughter maybe?"

The old man turned his head, yelled, "Trevor. Someone's here about that woman."

Trevor came to the door and Raylan reached a hand out. Trevor, flying high on something that came in a little clear bag, reached back out of habit, an artifact of social conditioning slinking out of his past. Raylan grabbed the offered arm and twisted him around and had the cuffs on him in less time than it took for Tim to finish the sentence he had started when the younger man appeared at the door.

"Trevor Warren, we're US Marshals and we have a warrant for your arrest." He delivered it in a dead-pan tone, kept an eye on the senior Mr. Warren.

"That was easy," said Raylan, a hand on Trevor's shoulder, and to the elderly man, "Have a nice afternoon, sir." He tipped his hat.

The door slammed.

Tim took a step backward and his foot dropped straight through the rotting floor and he lost his balance. Raylan let go of Trevor and grabbed Tim's arms, steadying him while he teetered and shifted his weight onto his other foot, swearing as the splintered wood scraped up his shin. Trevor decided to pick that moment to have an idea. He sprinted down the steps and headed for the road, making a getaway.

"Shit." Raylan huffed. He let go of his hold on Tim and stood glaring, annoyed, eyes burning irritated holes into Trevor's retreating figure. "There's something awful amusing about watching a man try to run with his hands cuffed behind his back. Looks a bit like a raccoon, the way he's rolling. You see that?"

Tim was bent over, gingerly turning his leg trying to free himself.

"You okay?" Raylan asked.

"Yeah, yeah. Go."

Tim waved him off and Raylan jogged after his fugitive, calling, "Hey Trevor, that's not fair now. You didn't say, 'You're it.'"

Raylan's comment pulled a grin out of Tim's scowl and he looked up briefly to see Raylan easily catch up with his runner. Tim then turned his attention back to his problem. Whoever had done the half-ass repairs to the porch twenty years earlier had skimped on the wood but not the nails and two long rusted ones had sliced deeply into Tim's calf. He hobble-hopped sideways and carefully slid his foot free, avoiding any more iron on skin, and cursed liberally – cursed the day, the job, Will Graham, the handyman responsible for the nails, the drugged up woman now on her feet and scuttling back down the road with a broken bottle aiming for the back of Raylan's head.

"Fuck!" Tim scuttled too, only faster, down the walkway and grabbed the woman by the hair and hauled her over onto her butt on the dirt. "Don't," he warned, limping around to face her and threatening her with a finger.

She wailed at him and he stared her down until her indignant screams petered out.

"That was just Neanderthal, Tim." Raylan appeared at Tim's shoulder, eyeing the mess at his feet. "If you want to ask a woman out, you gotta be more subtle."

"I had to touch her. Now I need a tetanus shot and a rabies shot."

"Hmm." Raylan commiserated.

* * *

"What're you stewing about?"

_Will fucking Graham._ "I'm trying to remember the last time I had a tetanus shot!"

"You don't need to yell," said Raylan. "You want me to take you by the clinic?"

Tim sighed. "Drop me at the VA center. They have my records. I just don't remember…" He screwed up his face, dropped his head with a thud onto the car window. "It's every ten years, right?"

"I think so."

"Do you remember what you were doing ten years ago?"

"No."

"I think I'd just signed up. No, that was earlier. Oh fuck, I don't remember."

They drove into Lexington with Tim grumping, pulled into the parking lot at the VA center and got out of the car.

"I'm fine," Tim said. "I'll get a cab back."

"It shouldn't take long. I'll wait." Raylan followed Tim through the doors and looked around curiously. He'd never had an opportunity to walk into the place.

Tim hobbled to the desk and explained his problem, handed over his Veteran's Identification Card and they told him to wait. He sat quietly in a chair against the wall, sullen, trying to disappear.

Raylan joined him and made a valiant attempt to keep up both sides of their usual banter. Eventually he gave up, fell silent, catching Tim's mood and thinking about Arlo's moods, thinking there were similarities and differences too. "You come here much?" he asked finally, a bit of humor, a bit of curiosity.

"No. Never had a reason to. I got good insurance through work, right? Only time I was injured was when I was still in. Got looked after at the base hospital in Germany, shipped back to Kandahar from there for my next deployment."

"Oh." Raylan tapped his hat against his knee, tried not to gaze too openly at anyone. "What happened?"

"It was nothing. I was in and out."

The nurse called Tim's name then and he was finished in ten minutes and limping determinedly to the exit. Raylan stood up quickly when he saw him and hurried after him.

"All good?"

"Yeah."

"Should we go see Art and show him your boo-boo?"

Tim snorted, then laughed. "Yeah, okay. Do you think he'll let me have the rest of the day? I had to have a needle too." He pouted, pointed to his left shoulder.

"If you play it up. Just say 'ow' a lot."

"Ow."

"You're acting sucks, buddy."

"_Ow."_

"Now you're getting it."

* * *

Art was properly sympathetic.

"Sucks to be you." He pointed to Tim's desk. "Stay there till tomorrow."

"I have to sleep here?"

"Don't be obtuse."

"What does obtuse mean?"

_"Stupid on purpose!"_

Tim grinned as Art stomped back into his office then stomped out again.

"When was your last tetanus shot?"

"About half an hour ago."

"Do you want a lollipop?"

"Bourbon flavored?"

"It's not five yet."

Tim managed to stay in his chair for an entire hour. He fished through his messages, putting them in order of importance. His friend at the FBI ended up on top. He phoned her back. She didn't have much to add, only that the disappeared WITSEC guy was in a sealed-folder protection deal – a DEA case and out of her reach. Tim already knew that. Then she informed him that Frederick Hayes, the man Tim shot in the cave, had been under investigation for malpractice and was suspected of performing identity changing facial surgery on anyone with enough money to pay his fee. The feds were keeping an eye on him. Tim figured Jack Crawford already knew that.

Being stuck at his desk anyway, it didn't seem like such a waste of time to call the DEA and see what kind of attitude they could give him. He ended up talking to the agent in charge of the WITSEC guy's case and he was surprisingly friendly. Maybe he was stuck at his desk too; maybe he was feeling lonely now that his WITSEC guy was dead. Either way, he had some interesting information for Tim.

He hung up after a quarter of an hour and started to type an email, stopped and picked up his phone, stopped and considered writing the information up in a report. But who would see it? Will was on vacation. He picked up his phone again, finger poised to dial, stopped, got up and walked out of the office.

Art, frowning, watched him go.

Tim sat on the steps of the courthouse and dialed Will's cell then hung up before it rang.

Will called him right back. Tim stared at the display and let it ring, answered it when it was almost too late.

"Hey," he said, talking quickly, "I got some information for you." Keeping it all business. "Apparently Mr. Skinless Bone-in was…"

Will interrupted. "Mr. Skinless Bone-in?"

"That's what Raylan calls him."

"I see."

"So anyway, Mr. Skin…the disappeared WITSEC guy, he was giving anything he had to the DEA to try and…"

Will interrupted again, "And to think that…people call _me_…antisocial. Hi, Tim. How are you?"

"Do you want to hear this or not?" There was no audible response. "Are you laughing?"

"It seemed…appropriate. Why aren't you laughing?"

Tim thought about it, and it did seem funny. He made the face for an empty world, smiled. "So, do you want the news on skinless, bone-in or not?"

"Yes, please."

Tim put the conversation back on track. "He was giving up anything and everything to the DEA to try and get protection. I have no idea what he finally made the deal on, but he did tell them about a plastic surgeon that he knew through business who he suspected was killing for fun. The DEA passed the name on to the Feds and I don't know what the fuck your people did with it, _but_, do you want to make a bet that surgeon met his end with a bullet in a cave in Kentucky?"

"Frederick Hayes. They knew each other."

"Maybe."

"So, Hayes was likely just getting rid of him for the cartel."

"Maybe, though maybe he was getting rid of a witness for his own sake," Tim said. "You should start digging around in his backyard for bodies."

"They've…already dug up his entire life. They still think he's the Chess Master."

"But you don't?"

"No."

Tim nodded distractedly for the voice on the phone.

"Tim?"

"Yeah."

"You should come to Virginia."

"That's an eight-hour drive."

"I know. I've done it…twice."

* * *

Eight hours later Tim was sitting up in bed, black centers of his eyes fixed on the corner of the room, hand curled around a glass of bourbon. He'd left them on the floor from the previous week, the glasses and the bourbon, not on purpose, not because he expected to be woken soon by sweats and shakes and the rest of the 'it's all over but the crying' bullshit that he couldn't seem to lose the shadow of, but out of neglect, because the chaos of the living room was starting to spill into the precision of his bedroom now too. And he was willing to let it. The other life was loosening its hold everywhere he looked until he closed his eyes and then it was all he saw; it had a firm grip in his dreams. He wondered if it would fade there too. And then what? There had to be more to it than that. He couldn't decide which was more horrible – remembering or forgetting.

He picked up the bottle and padded into the main room of his apartment, discontented with the bedroom now, settled himself at the computer and checked his messages. His buddy, the one still in, was having a good rant about the quality of new recruits and the ridiculous ideas they brought with them then he ranted more about Syria and Afghanistan and UN policy makers and Tim grinned finally and answered back that soldiers make lousy politicians and even worse diplomats and that maybe the grunts of the world should be allowed to run things for a while and let's see what happens.

There. He hit send and felt happy that he'd given his buddy plenty to respond to. It should be an entertaining reply. He poured more whiskey.

There was another message – he'd noticed it, left it until last – one from an online chess site, a response to the invitation, a next move. Tim logged on, accepted, countered quickly, following the famous game, Karpov vs Kasparov. His grin changed into the hunter's smile. It might just be a coincidence. It might.

He wasn't sleeping now. Not that he was sleeping before. He wouldn't be sleeping right for a while. The nightmares never flew solo.

Maybe he needed a vacation.

* * *

xxxxxxxxxxx


	17. Chapter 17

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Seventeen**

And then he was curled around his bottle. Tim was anticipating the nightmare the next night so he woke more shaken by it than he did the previous night, stared at the ceiling awhile before rolling out of bed for his bourbon-buddy then back in and working on perfecting the technique of drinking while lying down. He was getting good at it.

The next day at work he sat at his desk numbly, hoping for a long day at least or ideally an overnight stake-out. By noon he was checking the weather. At four he was sitting in Art's office.

"Sure you can have a couple days. Take a week. You do realize that your years with the military count toward your earned vacation time with the Marshals Service."

Tim looked at Art blankly.

"I'll take that as a 'no.'" Art looked over his glasses back at Tim. "You've got ten days left from last year and it's already August and you haven't taken any vacation this year. _Please,_ take a week. Hell, take two weeks then maybe my conscience will stop bothering me every time I look at you."

"Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"I'll take a week."

"A week," Art sighed. "It's a start. If you change your mind on Friday and want another one, just call it in."

"Alright."

"Alright."

Tim paused by the door. "If I come back early?"

"I'll shoot you."

"Okay."

* * *

He jumped, startled by the body, and his heart thudded against his rib cage. Will startled easily - not from cowardice, it was just his nature to notice things in a rush, his feelings and awareness always acutely focused outward. And finding a body on your living room floor in the morning that wasn't there when you went to bed would be enough to startle anyone.

The dogs didn't seem upset about it, in fact, they'd evidently been cozying up with the body. Will could see at least three canine imprints on the sleeping bag that hid the intruder and he eyed his ridiculous watchdogs with disbelief as they stepped around and over the bundle on the floor, tails wagging. They trotted to Will to say hello and on over to the door, completely unconcerned. Will decided watching them that there was no threat and the intruder was probably someone he knew. He tiptoed across the floor and had a closer look.

It was Tim. He couldn't see a face but the tattoo on the wrist gave him away. Will smiled, a bit giddy, suppressed an urge to climb into the sleeping bag too. Then he considered the logistics: How did he get in? And why didn't the dogs bark?

He had heard them once, restless, a growl, when a motorcycle went by sometime last night and maybe, maybe they could smell Tim on him still, somehow.

Tim rolled over, opened one eye, pulled the sleeping bag up over his head, mumbled something.

"Coffee?" Will hazarded a guess in response.

Another mumble.

Will nodded. "Coffee."

While the coffee dripped into the pot, Will shuffled to the door and opened it – it was locked – and the dogs rushed past him and out and past the motorcycle parked in the driveway beside his Volvo. _Talk about a dichotomy,_ he thought, a Volvo and a…

"Is that a Harley?" He turned around and watched Tim sit up and scrub his hands through his hair, flattening it a bit. "A Fatboy?"

A sleepy nod.

"Nice bike," Will said, admiring. "What year?"

Tim crawled out of the sleeping bag still dressed, looked around, taking in the layout of the house in the early morning light. "Where's the bathroom?"

Will pointed and Tim stumbled that way, said, "I had to use the other bathroom last night."

"What _other _bathroom? I only have one."

An arm waved toward the open front door then disappeared, shutting itself into the indoor bathroom. Will grinned at the cavalier attitude then walked outside to have a closer look at the bike. It looked like an older model, mid-nineties. He admired it, strolled a circle around it then joined the dogs in the other bathroom, peed against the tree and went back inside.

"How many dogs do you own?" Tim was back on the floor on his sleeping bag, sitting leaning against the couch. "When you said 'dogs,' I pictured two not…six?"

"I've had more. I take in…strays. It's been suggested that it's a…a personality flaw."

"Can't imagine why." Tim rolled to his knees to put away his makeshift bed. "Hope you didn't mind another stray last night. I came out to Virginia to see a couple of friends. I got the week off. I was too tired to make the ride back last night and there are too many mosquitoes for sleeping outside."

It was a simple and straightforward statement, but to Will's ear it was jagged and raw and hurting. An image flashed in his mind, a bleak reality of white headstones, and he imagined Tim walking the rows at Arlington, _in Virginia to see a couple of friends_. "Your friend at the FBI?" Will asked, trying not to give away his suspicions.

"Nah, she's in New York."

Tim left it there and Will left it there too, certain now.

The dogs interrupted the weighted silence, scratching at the door. Will let them in, half of them, and the largest trotted over and started licking at Tim's face. He pushed it away and stood up, wiped his cheek. Will walked over, close, dropped a hand on Tim's shoulder and pulled him in, ran the hand up the back of Tim's head and grabbed his hair. Tim leaned a little into it.

"How are your…friends doing?"

"The same."

Will slipped his other hand around Tim's back pulled him closer, briefly. "I'm still on vacation. I…well…I have five or six more weeks left. I was…going fishing." He let Tim go and walked to the kitchen and poured some coffee. "If you're not in a hurry to head out, you could join me."

He looked back to see Tim standing there, staring at the carpet.

Tim took a deep breath finally, moved a little, answered, "Yeah, okay. Sure."

* * *

Will had noticed the case earlier. Tim had packed some clothes and other personal items, including a handgun in a small lockbox that Will caught a glimpse of in the saddlebags from the bike, but there was a case too that he had brought in with him when he snuck in during the night, set against the wall by his sleeping bag. It was locked too, and Will suspected it was another firearm and had his suspicions confirmed when Tim opened it and put together a rifle. Will watched, fascinated, as Tim fitted the pieces together smoothly, without hesitation, slung the rifle casually over his shoulder, though as a weapon it looked anything but casual, then fished around in one of his bags, pulled out a baseball cap and a water bottle.

Eventually, the scrutiny rubbed Tim and he twitched. "What?" he shrugged, tying his boot laces and looking up at Will.

"We're fishing, not…hunting. Or is that how people fish in Kentucky – they shoot them."

Tim snorted.

"Tim, there hasn't been a bear sighted around here in decades."

Tim shrugged again.

"Do you have a hunting license?" Will asked.

"It's not loaded," Tim responded, dismissive.

"Then why bring it?"

"Why does it matter?" Tim asked tersely. "I won't shoot you. I promise." He walked outside.

Will watched him leave then turned away and gathered up what he needed for the morning, his favorite rod and a spare, his box of gear, thinking while he packed, thinking steadily about the rifle while he went through his lures, selecting them for the season and the fish likely in the river that time of year. When he was ready he locked up and headed across the road and across the field and into the forest to the river where it snagged and formed a small lake with a clearing on the shoreline wide enough for casting without having to wade in. Tim followed along quietly.

Tim had never cast with a fly rod before and was content to watch. He liked being outside. Will explained the differences between fly fishing and spin casting and demonstrated how to flick the line in ever-growing arcs, smoothly, teasing the lure across the top of the water before letting it land. He got a bite with the first cast. It was going to be another hot day but the small lake was continuously refreshed by the stream and deceptively deep and the fish were active in the cool water. It surprised Will nevertheless and he swore and jerked the line and Tim laughed and that also surprised him. He landed a small trout, unhooked it and tossed it back into the water.

"I doubt I'll catch anything worth keeping today. It's too hot. The big trout will stay deep."

"Then why did you come out?"

"It's relaxing. It gets my mind off of…things."

Tim nodded in understanding. "I go to the range for that. This is a bit quieter."

"Yeah, just a bit."

Tim watched as Will gathered up the fishing line and cast again. It was elegant, the movement of the line a dance – it hypnotized. The sun came through the trees by the fourth cast, warming the air and coaxing a light mist off the cool pond that reached up to the light. The line cut through it, whipping up curls of moisture, a quiet zip and slice, repeated and repeated again, and then a light plop as the fly landed, barely disturbing the water. Tim closed his eyes to listen and fell asleep.

He awoke with a start only moments later, hand gripping the rifle that lay across his lap. Will was gathering up the line again, spooling it at his feet. He had seen Tim wake up, had seen the instinctive tensing on the rifle.

"Do you ever leave your house unarmed?" he asked, imagining the soldier, marching in his boots in his imagination, the fear of being caught unaware, unable to defend yourself.

Tim wiggled his fingers in the air. "Do you ever shut off your feelers and stop trying to get into people's heads?"

"I…try." Will flicked the rod back and started the casting cycle again, back and forth, effortlessly reaching out farther and farther over the water. Finally he let the line drop and started pulling it back in with his left hand, spooling it again at his feet. "Why do you think I live out here, a good two miles in any direction from human contact?" He chuckled. "The place had been on the market for quite a while when I found it."

"I like it. Though it's a little like a shed compared to most of the houses around here."

"It's old, an original, I think. You want a go?" He offered up his gear with a gesture.

"Next time maybe," Tim replied. "Are you done? Can I go for a swim?"

"Uh…sure. I'm…not here to catch fish."

"Watch my rifle." Tim stripped down to his boxers, waded into the pond and headed across at the widest part.

Will settled under the tree where Tim had been, pulled the rifle across his lap and looked it over. It looked well cared for and older and that was all he could say about it. He propped it back up against the trunk and tried to figure out the rifleman instead. Tim swam efficiently, fluid and confident, turned and started back across, then again. He swam for half an hour then sloshed and dripped his way back over to the tree and flopped in the grass in the sunlight just past the shade from the canopy to dry.

"We should've brought some beer."

"It's not even eight in the morning, yet."

"So? We should've brought some beer. Next time, bring beer."

Will focused on the words 'next time.' He liked the sound of that. "Next time, I'll bring beer…and a cooler."

"Cooler? Who needs to lug a cooler when we got a lake."

Tim smiled and Will wondered if it was a memory that prompted it or if he was inviting him nearer. He decided to play it safe and stay where he was.

Tim reached out after a while and took hold of Will's ankle and tugged. Will laughed at the antics and subtly helped the process as Tim continued to pull him closer. When Will was near enough he traced the tattoo on Tim's chest, once, then shook himself loose from Tim's grip, stood and strolled over to the shore to cast a line again, get his mind off things.

When he looked back, Tim was dressed, sitting against the tree and staring at something in the distance, hand on his rifle across his lap.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	18. Chapter 18

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Eighteen**

"I'm going to take a shower," Tim said, stretching and touching the window ledge at the top of Will's bed.

The sheets were a mess, tangled and twisted, but unlike Tim's bed, the sheets on Will's bed were always a mess, day or night, so their current condition was no indicator of what they'd been doing that afternoon. They had been messing the sheets, talking when they weren't out of breath – lazy and languid taking turns with passionate and urgent. These were two states of Tim's existence that Rachel would likely never get a peek at and Will felt it was a shame – she deserved to know there was something better for him. He looked years younger stretched naked on the bed and Will was the only one enjoying the difference.

"There are towels on the shelf and help yourself to…whatever. Beer and porch after?"

Shirt, pants, Tim picked them up on his way to the bathroom. "Beer and porch. Sounds good." He stopped at the doorway. "Is there a range around here?"

"I…don't know. I use the one at Quantico."

"Indoor?"

A nod confirming and Tim disappeared from the doorway.

Will slipped into his boxers and walked down to the kitchen. He peered in the fridge, counted the beer bottles, added some, then shuffled things around wondering what he could scrounge up for a meal. He snorted, thinking that Hannibal could have whipped through his kitchen and presented an elegant three-course dinner without taking off his suit jacket, though it probably would've meant being short a guest.

There was an aboriginal myth he remembered stumbling across during some research, the story went that when the first man and woman had children they loved them so much they ate them. The gods decided to make the children, or maybe it was the love, a little less perfect to avoid it happening again. There must be some truth in it, something latent in the human psyche, he decided thinking back on some of his cases, that tendency seemed to surface periodically.

There was meat in the freezer and he pulled out something that looked like chicken and set it to thaw in some tepid water in the sink. Good enough. He liked his guest too much to make him the menu, or loved him less than perfectly anyway.

The bathroom was small. Will waited until Tim was finished to use it, not sure of the etiquette, or if there were an etiquette. He'd never had a house guest.

A shortened shower, afraid he'd come down and find Tim gone, Will dressed quickly, hurried back downstairs. But Tim didn't look about to leave anytime soon. He was comfortable in the kitchen, already halfway through a beer and perched on the counter watching the dogs sniffing around the lower cupboards.

"Mice," Will said, explaining their behavior. "Usually I've caught them all by now or they head back outside for the summer but this year I have a loiterer…or two."

His phone rang, suddenly, loud, and he flinched, tensed a little. It was Alana Bloom not Jack Crawford, not business, not a body…or two.

"Alana." He tried to sound unperturbed, came off a bit jaunty. "No, I'm fine. Rather…relaxed, actually." Tim was smirking at him and Will turned his back to him and walked into the living room. "Uh…today? It's…really…probably not a good time. I…took in another stray last night. He's a little skittish."

Tim hopped down from the counter and walked past to the front door, smacked Will's head playfully with an open palm as he went by.

"Of course, yes, you can meet him, it's just…well…not now. I'd suggest…maybe next week?" He added quickly, "If he's still here. He may not stick around. You know how it is."

Tim was out on the porch, his laughter carried indoors.

"No, really. I'm fine. This hiatus…was a good idea."

They talked about the weather and the upcoming trial and then Will hung up and wondered if she was worried about him as a friend or as a psychiatrist. A week or two ago and the question might have kept him occupied for the rest of the day and likely the next too, but today, he didn't care and she slipped from his mind completely as he set his phone down.

He joined Tim on the porch and the world beyond it seemed distant and unthreatening for a change, slower too. The dogs came and went, happy to have people at home.

The silence was easy – a shared solitude – and passed the better part of an hour for them. Will broke it first, reluctantly, but it was important. "Do you want another beer?"

Tim replied with a nod, not wanting to add to the noise yet either.

"When's the trial start?" he asked when Will sat again. "I heard you mention it."

"In a couple of weeks. It's already been delayed once. They keep identifying more victims to add to the list."

Will had a way of speaking, almost a whisper, that made any conversation seem intimate. Tim liked the sound of it and asked another question just to hear him talk more. "How much do you have to be involved?"

"I'm the lead investigator and profiler, a victim too, of sorts, the arresting agent, a former patient…a former friend." Will spat out the last word, distancing himself from it. "I think I'll be on the stand for…quite a while. Probably longer than Dr. Lecter himself."

"It's gonna be a fucking zoo. Baltimore, right?"

Will nodded.

"Then what?"

"Then what?" Will looked at Tim briefly, dropped his eyes. "Then…I'm back at it, I guess. Back at Quantico either working for Jack or lecturing. I…what about you?"

"Me? Same old. I got training coming up. I'm surprised Art let me take this week off. I'm gone again at the end of the month."

"Training for what?"

"Tactical. Special Operations Group." A wry head tilt. "It's the annual shindig. I am so looking forward to it."

Will thought about that. "You've…it's likely you've covered a trial I've been involved with, then."

"Yep. I might've been staring down my scope admiring your ass. But you'd've been wearing that professor jacket probably, covering it."

Will grinned, liking that idea. "You might be working Hannibal's trial."

"I doubt it. My team's just come off rotation."

Will didn't quite understand what that meant, but he had another month's vacation to research the duties of the US Marshals' SOG team if he felt like it. Sliding a little down in his chair, he stretched his legs out, determined to enjoy the remainder of the afternoon with Tim, not sure how long he had. He couldn't help but consider Hannibal's remarks about his need for solitude. The man's intellect and influence would always be present in Will's thoughts. Hannibal wasn't only a monster; sometimes he was his other talents, and an astute observer of human character was one of them.

If he and Hannibal had continued the conversation about relationships, if they could have, then Hannibal likely would've commented that Will collected strays to avoid loneliness but preserve his need for solitude. He looked sideways at Tim, contemplating how he fit.

"Since you're now my latest stray," Will said, laughing at himself, "I have to tell you – you remind me of the Jack Russell." He pointed to the smaller dog sniffing around Tim's Harley. "He's way too smart and frustratingly independent and…fabulous company."

Tim took a long draw on his beer and considered the comparison. "Only I'm more like a three-legged dog."

"A three-legged…dog?"

"Uh-huh."

Will played along. "Front or back leg missing?"

Tim thought about it. "Oh, I'm missing a front leg, for sure. Still got lots of power, but I have trouble keeping my balance."

Tim chuckled at his own assessment of himself, grinned and threw the face at Will and Will let it hurt him for once. He joked back anyway, trying to cover his feelings.

"I'll bet that makes it hard to chase your tail."

"Or easier, depending on which direction I run." A twirling finger one way then the other.

_Dogs keep a promise a person can't._ Alana's words came back to Will then and slapped him with a dose of reality, but he knew they couldn't change anything now. He was who he was – he took in strays. When did he ever not? The problem was – and he could see this problem quite clearly even through his current crush – that this one could, and would, come and go as he pleased. There was no promise and unconditional was very _un_human. It was a risk. Forewarned made it easier, and harder. Now who was chasing his tail?

Will watched as Tim dropped the face and started chewing on a lip with a wry and uncertain head tilt. He looked vulnerable.

"You…don't have to sleep with the dogs, you know." Will offered him a safe place if he wanted it.

The eyebrows moved up again but the face didn't reappear. "Thanks, but they don't have nightmares."

"Yes, I'm very aware of that and I'm incredibly jealous of them." He looked over at his pack.

"They were complaining about you last night. You were keeping us awake."

"Really? Sorry about that. I didn't even…wake up."

"I figured if I came up to calm you down, I'd probably scare the shit out of you." Tim made a soft noise, a huff, shook his head. "Anyway, don't worry about it, I was already awake." He took a deep breath and confessed, "Bad dreams of my own."

"So you've got monsters under your bed too." Will wasn't surprised to hear it, reached a hand out to try and touch what was vulnerable, ran it through Tim's hair.

Tim started to pull away but stopped, said, "Do they stay under there, your monsters? 'Cause mine crawl out and right into bed with me."

Bitter like boiled coffee – Will could taste it. "Mine have names and addresses and social security numbers," he said, commiserating. "But, to answer the question, no, the monsters under my bed are not well behaved. They come out, regularly. In fact, I can't remember the last time I actually slept alone."

"Promiscuous without any risk of disease."

"Now that's looking on the bright side." Will was relieved to talk about it, afraid before of being found out and rejected, wondered if Tim was too. Likely. _Let's put that fear to rest._ "Well, we might as well share the bed then…along with your monsters…_and _mine…and let the dogs get a decent sleep. Are you staying the night?"

A smile flittered across Tim's face like a specter, melancholy. He wouldn't look at Will and Will wished he would, some signal. He understood then how frustrating he must be for others, always avoiding eye contact. He waited for something but Tim just stared hard at his bike, looking like he was contemplating leaving.

Wanting to still him, hold him in place, Will reached out again but he was blocked before he could connect, his hand gripped tightly by one of Tim's.

With his other hand, Tim reached behind his back and brought out a handgun, hidden, always present, and settled it into Will's palm.

"If I'm gonna teach you how to shoot properly, the first thing we're gonna do is fix your grip." He folded Will's fingers around the gun. "Relax," he said, slid his chair closer and reached for Will's other hand. "Don't squeeze. Let it sit. Relax." He placed the fingers on the second hand over the first. "Like that. Now relax. You're strangling it." He let go. "We'll go shooting tomorrow. And I need to get on the internet." He looked at Will finally. "Find a decent outdoor range if I'm gonna stick around a few days."

Will braved a smile, encouraging, and relaxed his grip on the gun.

* * *

Tim called in on the Friday and asked for a second week. Art was ecstatic – it meant one less issue with the woman in Human Resources and a bit of weight off his worry scale.

Before the second week was up Tim was packing to go. Will had gone to the store for beer and food, pulled into the driveway and noticed immediately the bags loaded on the Harley.

Tim walked out the door with his rifle case and helmet.

"Going hunting?" Will asked lightly but his legs wouldn't move, lead in every limb.

"I got called in," Tim said. "Fuckers. I'm supposed to be at the bottom of the list this month. Apparently they need extra spotters for something."

"Spotters?"

"Snipers."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Tim stopped what he was doing. "I gotta fly out of Dulles. Is there a safe place there to leave my bike?"

"Uh, not really, just the parking lot."

"Shit."

"Leave it here. You can park it in the shed. I'll drive you to the airport."

"Nah, you don't have to."

"Tim, it's not even twenty minutes," Will insisted, waving a hand up the road. "And maybe I'll get my motorcycle license while you're gone. I've always wanted one and, God knows, I've got the time."

Tim handed over his helmet, grinned a challenge. "Knock yourself out. I'll be back to pick it up when I'm done whatever needs doing."

"Okay then." Will took the helmet, grinned foolishly, said, "I have a motorcycle." _And a guaranteed return ticket_.

"Hurt her and I'll kill you. She's my baby. And keep your dogs from pissing on the tires."

"They're staking their territory."

"On a motorcycle? That's the definition of futility."

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	19. Chapter 19

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Nineteen**

"When did you get a motorcycle?" Alana turned and looked back at the conspicuous Harley after Will answered the door. "Is this a rebel yell?"

Will chuckled, a mix of embarrassment with something else, a bit of rebel yell. "It isn't mine. I'm…looking after it."

"Taking in stray motorcycles too now?"

"Actually, it belongs to my latest stray." He shrugged and purposely put on the face. Then he laughed at himself. It was crazy and it was working for him.

"Should I be concerned?"

"If it makes you happy." Will invited her in. "I don't believe for a minute that you drove all the way out here to…car pool to Baltimore for the meeting at the Attorney's office. Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

Alana smiled sadly, measuring the new distance between them; whatever might have been was just that – a might-have-been. "How about some coffee before we go? We're early anyway."

She trailed him to the kitchen, sat at the table, greeted whichever dogs were inside, careful to pay equal attention to each one in turn. "You look good," she said, watching him. "Are you keeping busy?"

"I've had…company. It's been nice."

"Your stray?"

He nodded, half turned.

"And the pack of vagabonds here didn't mind?"

"Oddly, no," Will replied. "He broke into my house in the middle of the night and all they did was cuddle up with him for affection – wanton beasts." He switched the coffee pot on and turned to face her fully. "I discovered something."

"What?" She sat up, interested.

"They're terrible watchdogs."

"Oh," she laughed. It sounded forced.

Will frowned. "Are_ you_ okay?"

"Yes, no. I was worried about you."

"I'm fine."

"This man... A friend? Will, I didn't know you had any friends. You've never mentioned any."

"I did…have friends. I kissed one – that was a mistake – and the other turned out to be a notorious serial killer. It's tough to…keep up a trusting relationship with someone like that. I decided I needed some new friends."

"Was it a mistake?"

"No. No, not…a mistake, but…" Will looked around her face then the ceiling, looked for words. "It was…nice."

"Nice."

"That's better than 'a mistake', isn't it?"

"No, well yes, I suppose – barely. Who is he?" She was worrying her hands. "Not that it's any of my business."

"No, it's not." He considered not telling her, holding a part of his life secret. How long then before it was part of a report? "It's the US Marshal who shot the…well, shot the man that everyone thinks is the Chess Master."

"And he's not just a friend, is he?" she said, reading him.

He noted that she stepped around the not-too-subtle jab about the case, about his stubborn belief that they hadn't caught the killer yet, she went instead right at his sexual preferences, very Freud, not so subtle. Not that he cared. He was tired of the games. "No, he's not."

She sat back, crossed her arms, looked out the window.

"Nice…body language. You should go into advertising." Will stepped back to the counter to pour the coffee, a reason to turn away again.

Alana sat gaping at him, at the implication, then stood and walked over beside him, put a hand on his arm. "Will, I'm only being protective, not judgmental. It's not that I disapprove, I just don't know him."

"I do."

"Do you? How well?"

"How well does anyone know anyone? Alana, I can't just…stop…trusting people. And…you'll just have to trust me."

"I read the report. He was a suspect, Will, and for good reason considering his background."

"Never for me."

"And you're always right?"

"More often than not. Though when I'm wrong, I admit, I'm spectacularly wrong. I was wrong about Kentucky being the Chess Master's golden ticket."

"You were wrong about Hannibal."

"At first. And we were _all..._wrong about Hannibal. I'll take a share of the blame, but...an equal share."

"And what if you're wrong about Tim Gutterson?"

Hearing Tim's name drove something hard through him – there had been no contact since he left, nothing. "You don't like that I have somebody. I'm easier to control when I'm unsupported, a little more like a…a patient."

"Will, I…" She took a step back and regrouped. "I'm sorry. Relationships are mostly habit and I've developed some habits with you that clearly have to change. I never wanted you as a patient. I did everything I could to avoid it."

"But in the end... Alana, I understand, don't worry. I'm not...angry with you. But you have to... Circumstances forced it."

He poured the coffee finally, keeping his head down.

Alana made a contrite face, more little girl than accomplished psychiatrist. "Can you tell me about him?"

"You've read the report," he said, peevish, then walked around her to open the fridge, leaning in to get the milk for her coffee.

She capitulated. "Fine. Can you tell me something about him that isn't in the report? _Please? _As a friend?"

"You sound like a grade-schooler." He straightened up, glanced at her, read the apology in her expression, tossed a crumb. "He has a wicked sense of humor. He can…" Will stopped, smiled quickly. "He can even get me laughing about Hannibal Lecter. In fact, I'm making up my own jokes now."

"Some things aren't funny, Will."

He raised a finger to make a point. "'Those who do not laugh do not learn at all.' I'm thinking of becoming a Taoist."

She played along. "So you feel you're on the right path with this Marshal?"

"When you've been off it as long as I have, believe me, you know when you find it again. It's…easy – easy to be in a room with him." He looked at her again, quickly, to see if she understood what he was saying.

She was nodding, resignation. "You do sound like a Taoist."

"I'm not giving up drinking though." He was changing the topic, speaking lightly. "Do Taoists drink?"

She shrugged, then ran her hand down his arm. "You're happy?"

"Yes, I'm happy."

"Then I'm happy for you."

"Thank you."

* * *

The Harley sat unused in the shed. The attorney heading up the prosecution had Will in regularly leading up to the trial, coaching, rehashing the statements and the timelines, checking and cross-checking dates and testimonies. Will quickly stopped believing the story, he'd heard it so many times now, repeated endlessly, that it was taking on the quality of fiction. It certainly was a fantastical story, unbelievable, and yet he'd been there, seen it all with his own eyes.

Two days before the trial was to begin he took a class to cover for Alana who was covering for him. He found it difficult to keep to the script she'd prepared for him. The class was discussing a recent case – the Chess Master – and he couldn't help but pose questions to try and steer the students to doubt the findings, the conclusion. He was turned to the side of the lecture hall responding to a pointed inquiry from a particularly attentive junior agent, both intent on a discrepancy in the evidence, when he caught movement at the doorway. He looked over, expecting disapproval, Jack listening or Alana returned, saw instead a familiar smirk.

It made him angry. He'd not heard a word from him. He'd hoped for… _And therein lies the problem,_ he chastised his emotions, _you hoped._

"Ladies and gentleman, the Deputy US Marshal who shot and killed Frederick Hayes is gracing us with his presence this morning." Will waved a hand in Tim's direction and the smirk stilled into something cold and hard. "Deputy Gutterson, why don't you come in and say hello?"

Tim turned and walked out.

Will regretted his spite immediately. "He's a bit…shy," he said, and the class tittered.

Will took a deep breath and finished the lecture. "The scenes set by the Chess Master," he concluded, purposely not naming names, "are elaborate." He put emphasis on 'are', the present tense. "A careful, complex and well-planned series of victim selections and role-playing. What is he saying? What is his design? Judge for yourself if you think the crimes described in the reports fit the profile of the man we shot in the cave in Kentucky." He closed the folder on the lectern. "We caught a killer – there's no doubt about that, but… Write your own profile of the Chess Master and _you _decide if we caught the right killer, the only killer. Let's hear what you think."

He left a crime scene photo of the first victims on the screen and walked quickly from the hall.

* * *

"I know. You don't do this."

"That's right. I don't do this. It was a vacation."

Will sighed. "It sure was."

Tim had been waiting around the corner in a partially concealed alcove, had pulled Will over when he walked past. He hadn't said a word, just glared until Will repented. There were no promises out there.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. It was childish. What are you doing here?"

Tim wet his lips, his expression softening slightly. "Covering your ass." He twisted his mouth to one side. "I'm here to discuss possible threats with the lead investigator – you. Jack Crawford requested me." He bent his head. "I would've volunteered anyway. How's my bike?"

"Fine. Lonely."

"What? You didn't get a chance…?"

"I've been busy, preparing for the trial, going over testimony. I'm…getting tired of my own voice."

"Holy shit. How's that possible? I've spent time with you. You don't talk much."

Will smiled. "It's good to see you, Tim."

"I can't do this. I told you."

Will caught Tim's eyes and held them. "You deserve this. I…deserve this."

"I can't be something I'm not."

"I disagree. You do an excellent job of it."

* * *

Tim was lying on his stomach in a motel room on the outskirts of Baltimore. Will was digging his chin into a knot on his shoulder.

"Ow, fuck. I needed this." Tim buried his head into a pillow, his voice now muffled. "I've been wearing too many fucking clothes in the Louisiana heat for two days running drills for this stupid trial. I just want it over. I'm missing my desk. Never thought I'd say that."

Will laid his cheek on Tim's skin. "It'll be a long trial."

"They'll probably gear up another team and replace us at some point."

"How about weekends?"

"I can get away."

"Come get your motorcycle or I'll start charging you rent."

"Your dogs pissing on it?"

"I let them piss all over it."

Will's head bounced with Tim's chuckling.

"I gotta go," Tim said, checking the time. "4pm meeting with the team. Did you give me a complete list?"

"There are photos, too."

"Don't forget to wave."

"Wave?"

"I'll be looking down my rifle at your ass. Building across the street and east one."

"Roof?"

"Yep. Think of me if it's raining or if it gets up to the promised ninety-fucking-degrees. _And_ I'm wearing black." He dressed as he complained, said, "See ya," and left.

* * *

_It's ninety-fucking-degrees up here, the heat attacking in waves off the pavement on the street, off the dark roof where I'm set up and watching. I wipe a gloved-hand along my forehead, collecting sweat, start the cycle again with another long drink of water. _

_Passing the scope over the crowd in front of the courthouse I identify the different groups – media, easy to spot with cameras and microphones and their press IDs hanging around their necks, entitled, aggressive; courthouse workers mingling in the shade, smoking or talking, holding waxed-cardboard coffee cups with logos you can read at this magnification; the relatives and friends of the victims, a support group formed years ago and slowly, wretchedly growing in number, arms offering solace, tears; the local police and US Marshals on the outside of the crowd, eyes alert, occasionally drifting in for a better look, some bolted to a position at attention at the doors, and beyond that the Special Operations Group team, out-of-sight, watchful, the hunters._

_My earpiece informs me that the star of the show has arrived already through the back entrance, directly from the Baltimore State Institute for the Criminally Insane, Hannibal Lecter. The lesser stars start arriving at the front, the attorneys, the witnesses, the FBI profiler. _

_A man wearing a jacket in the heat walks quickly down the sidewalk opposite the crowd. He's spotted, an anomaly, his location radioed to the team. He's in white, moving now across the road, diagonally like a white bishop in play. And I have the best shot. I call it mine, flick off the safety on my rifle, round already chambered. I want to do it now, I tell the microphone, now before the target gets into the mix of humanity, mostly innocent. I wait for the call, close off any feeling but impatience. I wait, wait, suddenly in waiting I think, _I'm going to kill that man that I don't know with a bullet._ Then I twitch, once, residual memories of a time before I ever had to… This is not my design; this was never my design. This is my duty. This is what I am here for, what I trained for, and I can't not …_

Will opened his eyes to the dark room, moonlight filtering white through the window. Shutting down the mental process, halting his imagination abruptly at the moment with Tim's finger on the trigger, he rolled out of bed and padded down to the kitchen for a glass of water, opted for whiskey but purposely avoided the bourbon he'd bought just for his stray.

He had put himself on the roof with Tim, gone through the scenario three times now, but he couldn't get past to the point where Tim pulls the trigger. He didn't want to go there. He opened the door and stepped out to the porch to the deafening drone of crickets. He prayed it would be quiet tomorrow in Baltimore.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	20. Chapter 20

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty**

Will turned and looked from the steps of the courthouse, day one of the trial, searched the buildings to the east and spotted a rifle, tried to see something in the outline of the man holding it to identify him as Tim. He was pretty certain it was him, imagined the face behind the scope. Will had promised himself he wouldn't look. But he did and was glad he'd given in to temptation – the glimpse had the feel of rubbing a rabbit's foot or knocking on wood. He thought he saw a small movement, his sniper giving him the thumbs up, but it was hard to tell from that distance and the figure was in black and wearing black gloves. He waved, told himself there was a grin and a signal and it was a good thing to think about walking through the doors to face his monster.

After the first day, everyone fell into a routine. Will would smile briefly at Hannibal when he was escorted into the room and would receive a subtle and courtly bow in return, respect for an adversary. The witnesses, expert or unfortunate, the attorneys, everyone said their piece, droning and hushed, no one untouched, each still in shock at the horror. Every morning Will would turn at the top of the steps to the courthouse and wave; each break he would step outside again, regardless of the weather, and look up, wonder if it was Tim or someone else taking a shift.

"Is that him?" she asked the third morning, always aware of Will's movements.

He smiled shyly. "I confess, Alana, it's a bit like having…a guardian angel."

"That sounds romantic."

"Not in this case."

The Thursday of the first week Tim scored a lunch break at the same time that the judge called one for the trial. He stepped out behind Will at the courthouse entrance, slapped his shoulder to get his attention.

"Buy me a coffee," he demanded.

Will was wound tightly, on the stand the entire morning, jumped and stumbled the first step.

Tim laughed, a sound incongruous with the SOG gear, properly official and all business even without a rifle – combat ready, intimidating.

"You look good…in black," Will said, collecting himself. He continued down the steps, Tim following.

"I'm an excellent accessory for the well-dressed funeral attendee. Just call my office for availability."

"I could see you at a shotgun wedding, too."

"I'll do any event for a price."

"How about a weekend relaxing in Virginia?"

"Now that I'll do for free. I've been told I need the practice."

"I thought you were pretty decent at it."

Tim grinned. "You just don't let up."

Will stopped, put out a hand and stopped Tim. "Why would I? Can you give me even one good reason?"

"Coffee?" Tim reminded, bringing the conversation to an end and back to the beginning.

"This way."

The coffee and the company brought the world back in focus for Will. It was easy to get lost in the courtroom drama though he worked to keep distance between it and himself. He caught Tim up on the proceedings.

"And Hannibal's pleading not guilty to everything. His attorney's main line of defense is that it was…easy to…wrongly frame someone for the Chesapeake murders once, why not again – the burden of proof lies with the prosecution. It's all true and a good angle with a jury. But I look at him now and wonder how he ever fooled me."

"You said yourself when you profiled the Chesapeake Ripper that nobody would be able tell what he is – that he would look normal. So, you were right."

Will didn't feel any comfort from the acknowledgement, looked up at the sky and considered the weather. "Looks like rain this afternoon. Do you get to go inside?"

"No," Tim snorted. He glanced at Will, laughed at the look of concern. "I don't mind a bit a rain. It's better than the heat any day."

They were sitting on the steps, talking, keeping a space between. The distance seemed to be bothering Tim more than Will – he kept looking over, looking to close it somehow but unwilling.

"You going home tonight?" he asked.

"I go home every night. I…hate hotels. I spend a lot of time in them."

Tim nodded. "Pick me up after. I can get my bike."

"It's only Thursday. I thought you wouldn't be able to get away until Friday?"

Tim shrugged. "I can sneak away once or twice. And if I pick up my bike I can follow you home after the debrief tomorrow."

"Sounds good. I'm done at five." Will spoke quietly, slowly, not wanting to scare Tim off. It felt good to want something that bad.

"I'll be another hour after that, maybe more if they decide to change up the game plan at all. Can you wait?"

"There's a bar two blocks up on the left, north-east corner, with the original name, _The Bar._ They, unlike that…place in Lexington, have a fairly decent single-malt selection. I'll happily wait there."

"Do they have much of a bourbon selection?"

"I couldn't tell you. You'll have to come see for yourself."

"Alright, I will." Tim stood up, checked his watch. "You'd better get something to eat. You only got fifteen minutes left."

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me." A wry head tilt and a grin. "They feed the guard dogs well."

* * *

The gunshots could be heard from inside the courtroom. Everyone jerked with each shot, already on edge, a collective expectation of violence. Will was watching Hannibal's reaction to a testimony at the time, noticed that he barely twitched at the interruption, just turned and looked directly at Will and smiled knowingly.

Will tried to talk down his apprehension, but turned anxiously to look over his shoulder when the door opened. A US Marshal approached the bench and spoke quietly to the judge. Will chewed a bit on his lower lip thinking about Tim, concerned about who was at the giving end and who was at the receiving end of those bullets.

Hannibal watched.

The judge called for a short recess, unable to get order back in the room. Even he appeared eager to see for himself what was going on outside. He cautioned everyone to remain in the building until it was reported safe to leave. _Reported by whom? _Will wondered about procedure. He followed the crowd out into the hallway then slipped out the back door to the parking lot and between the buildings to the front.

He handed his ID to a Marshal standing at the corner of the courthouse façade, gestured with a nod to the street beyond. "What happened?"

"Some idiot decided to run by across the street firing a gun loaded with blanks. He's lucky he didn't get himself killed by one of our guys on the roof." She pointed directly at Tim when she said it. "Hell, he's lucky one of us down here didn't shoot him."

"Why didn't you?"

She gave him a funny look.

"I meant how did you know he was…firing blanks?"

She laughed at the choice of phrase. "We didn't. He waited till he was in the crowd there to pull. We didn't have a clean shot. Someone tackled him – a regular Bruce Willis." She shook her head, said, "It's a circus. I hate court security on a trial like this. All the weirdos collect in one spot."

* * *

There was a delay reconvening. Will waited until the last possible second to take his seat, hovering at the door looking for the cue from the court staff that signaled the return of the presiding judge. There was a nudge at his elbow.

"I need to talk to you before you leave tonight," Jack said quietly. "It's important."

"How long will it take?"

"I'm not sure. Why? Do you have somewhere you have to be?"

"I was meeting a friend for drinks."

"Tell him you'll be late." Jack walked past him to the bench behind the prosecuting attorney.

Will stared a minute at Jack's back, concerned that there was more to the use of the pronoun 'him' in Jack's last statement than an arbitrary assignment of gender. He ducked out the doors quickly to text Tim, then in again just ahead of the judge.

* * *

The SOG team was gathered in one of the hotel rooms for a beer at the end of the day. Tim joined them to pass the time, was interrupted by a summons from his team leader, left the rest of the guys bitching about the heat this late in the summer and walked the half block to the SOG command center set up in a vacant office across from the courthouse.

He stepped through the door and stopped short. The collection of people sitting around the room was not what he was expecting – Jack Crawford, the prosecuting attorney, the Marshals SOG team leader, the defense attorney, Will Graham, a woman and another man he didn't recognize. Whatever this was about, it was likely not worth the half a cold beer he'd left behind.

He addressed Jack Crawford, "Don't tell me – Dr. Lecter's convinced you that I'm his accomplice?" It was a bit insolent under the circumstances, even for Tim, but it had been a long day and the atmosphere reminded him of other meetings on another continent – officers, Military Intelligence and other unnamed agencies, a consortium of trouble for a lowly grunt. He felt a strong impulse to include a 'sir' at the end of his sarcasm.

A couple of the men sitting at the table wriggled uncomfortably in their seats, but not Jack; he smiled. "We would look pretty foolish if we allowed ourselves to fall for that a second time."

"Which foolishness are we talking about? Me as the Chess Master or Will Graham here as the Chesapeake Ripper?"

Another smile, this one less giving. "Take your pick."

Tim turned to his team leader next. "What's up?" he asked, was directed back to the Head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit by a shrug and a curious head nod.

Jack stood up and walked around to face Tim. "Dr. Lecter has asked to meet with you."

"Me?"

"You."

"By name?"

"By name."

"Why me? And how does he know my name?" He let his gaze flicker around the room at the faces but only really paid attention to the expression on Will's – worry and anger and a barely perceptible head shake, no.

"We're not sure why he's..." Jack began.

Will was on his feet, indignant, interrupting. "I _told_ you why – he's playing with us."

"Hannibal Lecter doesn't do anything without a reason."

"His reasons are irrelevant, Jack. The man is a psychopath. The only thing we need to figure out is _how. _How does he even know...Deputy Gutterson's name? It's not been in the papers."

"Again, uh, why does he want to talk to me?" Tim repeated the question, thinking it must be important. "And honestly, why would I want to talk to him?"

Will smiled, hard, no humor. "Thank you, Tim. That's an excellent question." He turned, glaring, to Jack. "Why would Deputy Gutterson want to talk to Hannibal Lecter? What good could possibly come of it?"

The two men were locked in a silent battle, an argument without words. Everyone was riveted.

"Is there something we're not being told?" It was the woman in the room who interrupted the silent dialogue. "Jack? Is there something we _should _be told?" She waited a beat. "Will?"

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, the frustration starting to show. "Special Agent Graham believes that Dr. Lecter is getting information about him and our cases somehow and that we should consider the idea that he was in communication with the Chess Master."

_"Is…is_ in communication."

"Is?" The SOG team leader looked at Tim. "I thought you killed the bastard."

"I missed."

"_You_ missed?"

"He didn't miss." Will was defending him. "He shot the wrong guy." He seemed to realize that he wasn't helping and tried to recover. "No, he shot the right guy, just…not the man responsible for the other killings. It's complicated."

"Exactly, Will. It's _too_ complicated. Occam's razor."

"Hannibal Lecter, Jack. Nothing is ever straightforward when he's involved."

"You're assuming he's involved. Back to my original point – Occam's razor."

"It stinks of him. He as much as confessed to me that he manipulated Frederick Hayes."

"Maybe it's you he's manipulating, again."

The woman stood and walked across the room, stopped beside Tim and said, "Hi. I'm Dr. Alana Bloom. Are you as confused as I am?"

She accomplished her goal – distracting Will.

"Alana, Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson – Tim, Dr. Alana Bloom." Will completed the introductions in a rush, then added for Alana's benefit, "I went to see Hannibal...after the shooting in the cave. He knew about Hayes, he knew Tim by name…even then. Someone is feeding him information. He implied that there are two killers."

_"Implied."_ Jack reinserted himself into the conversation.

"The timelines never fit!"

"Hey!" Tim stepped between Will and Jack. "Just answer my questions. Why does Dr. Lecter want to talk to me? And why would I want to talk to him?"

Jack took a minute to answer, watching Will's agitation, watching Tim watching Will. He turned deliberately away from his profiler, focused his attention solely on the Marshal. "None of us – not me, not Agent Graham, neither Dr. Bloom nor the head of the Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane, Dr. Chilton –," Jack pointed him out, the unknown man at the table, "has any idea why he wants to talk to you. But you, Deputy, want to talk to Dr. Lecter because _I_ want to find out_."_ He turned his head when Will let out an angry breath. "Will, we discussed this."

"No, we did not…_discuss_ this. You talked – I listened. And then I said, _no, _and you ignored me. Now I'm saying it again publicly. No!"

"Hey." Tim waved to get their attention. "I'll talk to him." An off-hand shrug. "What the hell."

"Thank you, Deputy."

This time it was Will who turned and left.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx

**Author's Note:** Hey, there, Jenna! You need to sign up on the FanFiction site so I can PM you.


	21. Chapter 21

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-One**

Will was on his third scotch by the time Tim got away from the triumvirate – Jack Crawford, Dr. Chilton and Dr. Bloom – and found the bar.

"_Do you know what you're doing?" Alana Bloom hissed, cornering Tim before he could leave the command center. "Hannibal Lecter came this close," she squeezed her thumb and a finger together, tight, "this close to destroying Will's life. And you've just agreed to open the door and let him in to try again." She was angry, turned on her heel and headed out to the street before Tim could answer._

So she knew. Tim thought about everything embedded in that bit of information. Who else knew? This wasn't how he wanted things. He didn't do this.

"We should get Rachel and Dr. Bloom together," he said, sat in the chair across from Will and waved impatiently at the waiter. "They'd get on like a jackhammer and a sledge."

Will kept his eyes down on his hands, on the glass in his hands.

"What kind of bourbon you got?" Tim demanded when the waiter arrived. The hesitation in the reply irritated him. "Whatever. Just bring me a double of whatever you have."

He waited for Will to speak, waited for his drink.

"I accept your terms," Will said finally. "You don't have to do this to show that…to prove that you don't _do_ this."

"I don't do that, either."

"Do what?"

"Play games. Drink up and let's go."

Will whispered, shouted, "Then why talk to him? You're not going to get anything from him."

"I want to show you that you don't have to be afraid of Hannibal Lecter. He's still controlling your life. Stop letting him."

"How?"

"By not being afraid."

"Not being afraid of him is…it's insane."

"Fight fire with fire. He's crazy so you be crazy. Know your enemy and all that. Let's go home. I'm bagged. And I'm tired of being two feet from you."

Tim's drink arrived. "Gimme the bill," he snapped at the poor waiter, stood up, downed the bourbon in one go, pulling money out of his pocket and sliding it under the glass as he set it down. He was out the door before Will finished his drink.

* * *

A late summer mist hovered over the dew-damp fields surrounding Will's house. The air was chilled, a cold front chasing the rain and heat out of the state. Will woke, half-woke, woke, blinked, stared childlike back at his house, dark and still. His feet were cold. The sky was lightening at the edges to the east. It was beautiful and calm.

"What the fuck?" he murmured.

"Well, hallelujah. Can we go back to bed now?"

Tim was standing behind him, bleary-eyed and sleep-tousled and yawning widely, holding out a pair of boots, boxers and a heavy plaid shirt, the one Will kept hanging by the front door.

"Uh, yeah." Will accepted the clothes sheepishly, gratefully, awakening now to the cold air, the hour. He shivered while he put on the boxers, slipped his feet into the boots. "I guess the heat wave broke."

"Yep."

"I guess I was…sleepwalking?"

"Yep. Naked."

An embarrassed nod, a smile to acknowledge the inconvenience.

"That's pretty rare in adults, isn't it?"

Will chuckled, wide awake now. "Sleepwalking or…being naked?"

Tim chuckled with him.

"Should've chosen your bedfellow more carefully," said Will, he searched Tim's face for something and found humor and acceptance and was happy with that. He let his eyes travel down the rest of him. "Nice outfit."

Tim was wearing boxers too, one of Will's sweaters, runners, no socks. "I was in a hurry, wondering where the hell you were going at 4:30 in the fucking morning. Didn't realize there was a dress code for chasing sleepwalking idiots."

"Sorry."

Tim draped an arm around Will's shoulders and nudged him toward the house. "I think I get now why you don't keep a gun under your pillow."

They crawled back into bed and up close for warmth. Will lay on his back, thinking, worrying. Tim scrunched in beside him and breathed into Will's neck.

"We have to get up in half an hour," said Will.

"Just let me warm up."

"You're not going to get anything useful out of Hannibal."

A murmured response. "Nothing useful to Jack."

"What do you mean?"

"He's threatening me, isn't he – Lecter?"

"Yes."

"Well then, it'd be helpful for me to know what I'm dealing with. I want to see his face."

"He won't come after you himself. He can't. But he's the grand maestro of manipulation. He'll find a way, someone to do the work for him. I need to get back to work. I need to catch the Chess Master."

"I still want to see his face."

"Wait. It'll be all over the papers in a few weeks."

"I'm impatient."

"You are not impatient. You're just keeping up the military tough guy tradition. It's sexy, by the way, but you don't need to impress me."

"I've never had pillow talk quite like this," Tim grumbled.

"Serial killers and psychopaths?"

"It's kind of a mood killer."

"I'll go make coffee."

"Just let me warm up first."

Will thought Tim had drifted back to sleep, his breathing even and slow.

"Boxers and boots are sexy." His voice was drowsy, lost in the pillow, but still a faint drawl got through, and he still managed to tease.

Will snorted.

* * *

"Don't do this." Will stood with Tim outside the room set up for the interview. "Don't do this."

"The guy's locked up tighter than the National Treasury. What can he do to me?"

"I don't know. I can imagine quite a few things though and…none of them are pretty. You don't know him. He's smart, Tim, way smarter than you or me."

"Maybe, but I got something on him."

"What's that?"

"I don't give a fuck."

"Still trying to be the tough guy."

"Oh yeah, that's me – tough guy, waking up in the middle of the night crying for his mommy."

Will chuckled, a bit desperate. "When have you ever cried for your mommy?"

Tim made the face; Will moved to close the distance between them but Jack Crawford opened the door. Will stopped, his smile flickering and dying out.

"Here's a list of questions we'd like answers to, if he'll cooperate. Am I correct in assuming that you can read, Deputy?"

"I'd say 'fuck you' but that's probably not appropriate considering you're the Head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit for the FBI."

Jack blinked. "Probably not appropriate, no, but rather what I'd expect from a hillbilly US Marshal with no schooling and a complete lack of knowledge of how to play chess…or politics."

That got a grin. "I got a bite, you know."

"A what?"

"A bite, on an online chess site. I set up your game on a couple of sites and started fishing. I got two bites actually. One fizzled out quickly, didn't know _jack_ about the game – excuse the choice of phrase."

"I'll allow it. The other?"

"The other is following it to a move, keeps trying to start a conversation."

"Could be a coincidence."

"Could be. Could be Agent Graham's right and your killer's still out there."

"Then who did you shoot, Deputy Gutterson?"

"A man threatening a federal law enforcement officer."

"Indeed."

"Indeed."

"We'll talk about it later."

Will took a deep breath. "Tim, don't tell Hannibal anything."

"I don't think I need to. He's got his own source and it's pretty good."

* * *

Tim stepped just inside the door and surveyed the room, his eyes coming to rest eventually on Hannibal Lecter.

Tim made the face, imagined Will in the next room gritting his teeth. "Dr. Lecter."

"Deputy Marshal Gutterson." He dipped his head a fraction. "A pleasure." Hannibal made a small but elegant gesture with his hand, managing it while cuffed through a bar on the metal table, managing to look like he was the gracious host of this meeting. "I am surprised you agreed to accept the invitation to talk with me."

"No, you're not." Tim sat, tipped his head toward the two-way mirror. "You might want to say hi to your friends."

"Friends." Lecter turned to look, his eyes carelessly drifting across the mirror. "Is it possible to be in my position and have friends?"

"I think Will would still be your friend if you let him. I think he pities you."

Hannibal straightened slightly, lifted his chin, testing the air, considering. "I suspect you are right. He would imagine being me and thus pity me. But would he turn the other cheek now?"

"I wouldn't let him – not without me standing beside him with a gun to your head."

"You don't pity me then, do you, Deputy?"

"Call me Tim. And no, I don't. I don't have much pity left in me. So I'll save it for someone more worthy."

"Like the civilians in that village in Afghanistan, the one your patrol shot its way through?"

"Nice try, but I guess your source isn't that good, is it?" Tim grinned. "That was an educated shot in the dark though. Which village exactly are you referring to? There were a few. And let me tell you, those folks, they don't need pity – shit, there's enough of that floating around already for them. Fat lot of good it does them. What they need is peace. What do you need, Dr. Lecter, from me?"

"I need nothing from you."

"Alright then. Nice meeting you. I got a drink waiting."

Tim stood up, signaled that he was done with the interview, deliberately took a roundabout route to the door, the long way around the table and behind Hannibal Lecter. He leaned over quickly, whispered something. Hannibal's right eye twitched subtly and he watched the Marshal leave the room, both men expressionless.

Jack was waiting. "You didn't ask him one question from our list."

"There was no point."

Jack didn't argue. "What did you say to him before you left?"

"I told him he might want to consider finding a new tailor. His cuffs are too short."

"Tim."

The use of his first name stopped him. He gave Jack Crawford his attention.

"I am concerned for Will. I think he is the only person Dr. Lecter has ever met who truly challenges him. You asked what Dr. Lecter needs from you. I'll tell you – he needs a conduit to Will's emotions. He needs to come out of this the victor."

"The victor? The man's going to prison for life."

"The victor in his own eyes, in his game with Will."

"Then why did you push to have me meet with him?"

"Because if I know the path he'll take, then I can cut him off."

"You hope."

"It's all I have."

Tim opened the door and walked out.

Will was waiting at the far end of the hall, leaning, arms crossed, head down, distracted.

Seeing him, Tim hesitated, wet his lips. He could easily turn and walk the other way.

"Hey," he called out, strolled casually down the hall to meet him.

"I…really didn't enjoy that."

"I'm sorry. I tried to make it interesting." Tim tried to make light of it.

"What did you say to him…at the end?"

"I told him that_ I_ know what you taste like."

The roguish grin that followed the confession doused Will's annoyance. He pushed off the wall and followed Tim out of the building. "You didn't."

"In fact, I did."

"You shouldn't be rude to Hannibal. He…doesn't take it well."

"Is that an understatement?"

"You have no idea. It's how I believe he chose most of his victims – a lack of manners."

"He doesn't scare me, Will."

"You've said that before and the only thing I can attribute it to is ignorance."

Tim stopped Will and faced him. "Let me explain something. I'm not afraid of him. I'm more afraid of you."

"Me? Why?"

Tim ignored him, talked over the question. "And it's not ignorance, it's experience. I've seen people do stuff as bad as anything he's done and they didn't have the excuse of faulty wiring. At least he's predictable. You can't ever trust him. That makes him less scary to me. Knowing I can't ever let my guard down, I won't. Do you understand?"

"No."

"Fuck. You're annoying."

"No. You're annoying."

"Are we going to Virginia for the weekend?"

"Yes."

"Good. I fucking hate Baltimore."

"Why?"

"'Cause Hannibal Lecter's in Baltimore and I can't let my guard down."

Will felt himself relaxing a little around Tim's 'come what may' attitude. He let go his fears for now, joined the teasing, "Speaking of guards – could you work with my dogs this weekend, train them to be better watch dogs? You're certainly _experienced."_

"Fuck off. _Train dogs."_ Tim dismissed the idea with his tone. "You've spoiled them rotten. The best I could do is teach them to back into a threat, beat it to death with their wagging tails. God, I miss Kentucky. Even Harlan's looking good."

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	22. Chapter 22

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Two**

It was a contradiction and it was part of the foundation of his unusual gift: Will could see more clearly with the lights off.

He preferred getting called to a crime scene after the sun disappeared, its full-spectrum white light shining on the other half of the earth, the shadows and darkness left behind providing a more compliant easel for Will's imagination. He understood what he _couldn't_ see better in the dark and so could see more. That was the contradiction and it worked for him.

He lay awake making use of his gift, watching Tim struggle to beat his monsters back, drive them under the bed until the next night. At first Will attributed Tim's nightmares to the stress of the case, going into a second week now of being on constant alert. But that was wishful thinking. The truth had been circling in Will's head since before that, ignored, unwanted, awareness that Tim's unease had everything to do with him somehow, with them together, not with the job. Tonight Will was honest with himself in the dark and seeing clearly finally. He acknowledged that the pattern of nighttime disturbances had started before the trial, back when Tim stayed with him that first week. Looking back down the line of interrupted nights, he could see that it was getting worse. And he knew it was a clue, a part of the reason why Tim didn't do this.

The thrashing woke Tim up eventually. He was still finally, breathing heavily, turned to look at Will and found Will looking at him.

"What?" Churlish, he turned away.

"You are…decidedly more charming in the evening than you are in the middle of the night unless, of course, it's _my_ nightmare that wakes us."

"How can you speak in such big fucking sentences at this hour?"

"I've been awake for a while."

Tim shuffled his pillow, trying to get comfortable. "Sorry," escaped, sounded small in the night.

Will slipped out of bed and came back a minute later with two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. Tim rolled back over and huffed.

"What?" Will threw back at him. "Tomorrow's Saturday and…this is when the stuff really tastes good."

He could make out the smile in the dark and Tim sat up and held the glasses so Will could pour.

"The horror," Will said.

"The horror," Tim responded, but it lacked enthusiasm. He finished off his drink in one swallow and lay back down.

"I think we need to talk about this," said Will.

Tim brushed off Will's concern, gave a sarcastic reply about not crying to his mama, rolled up against him and fell back to sleep.

The next morning Tim didn't say much, went to swim laps of the pond though it was chilly now, starting to feel like fall. Will tagged along for the walk, threw a towel at him when he dripped up onto the bank.

Tim disappeared for the rest of the morning, off to the outdoor range he'd sourced when he'd stayed in Wolf Trap for his vacation. He returned for lunch, insisted afterward on taking Will back to the indoor range attached to it. They spent another couple of hours there, more practice.

"You keep dropping your arm, dipshit. You gotta focus. Every bit of you has to focus. Sometimes the situation won't let you set up completely so what you do get time for has to be right. You gotta be consistent. Now lift that arm. Relax. And if you fucking yank that trigger back one more time, I'll shoot you in the kneecap."

They had to take a break then, Will was laughing too hard.

He had to admire Tim's meticulous approach to shooting, the attention to detail in every aspect from the stance to the grip to the specific brand of ammunition used. It was beyond necessity; it was craft, maybe art. Tim labored over each step of hitting a target with a bullet from a handgun and Will was improving because of it. It gave him confidence he hadn't felt in a while.

But he never said "thank you," never a hint of gratitude for the lessons, nothing to remind Tim of why he didn't teach people how to shoot.

That night Tim woke again, a shout or a sob in the dark. Will woke with him, counted to ten, opened his eyes. Tim was sitting on the edge of the bed, the sweat on his back gleaming in the reflected light, hair on end. He got up and dressed and left the room. Will gave him a few minutes then followed.

"If it's keeping you awake, I'll stay in town."

"No, it's not…it's not that. It's just… I know it's not fun."

Tim had no reply. Will sat on the couch beside him, pulled him over onto his lap. The biggest dog decided to join them and Will tried to shoo him off then Tim started laughing when the beast walked heavily across his chest looking for someplace comfortable to curl up. The dog gave up eventually and hopped down and settled back on the floor with the others.

They were changing places, Will realized, he and Tim. Will's dark nighttime imaginings were dwindling with the easy and welcome company, fading into memory. Tim's were ramping up. Will tried to find a connection, a reason, couldn't see how anything this effortless could trigger anxieties. He couldn't see the cause. But he knew it was there if he just knew how to look; he was missing a crucial piece of evidence.

Tim refused to discuss it, refused to look Will in the eye over breakfast. They repeated the routine from the day before then Tim headed back to Baltimore that night for an early start to the week.

And Hannibal changed his plea to guilty before court adjourned that Monday.

The court was in an uproar. He had fired his attorney. Speculation was that he recognized that his defense would never hold up and he hoped for leniency. Will didn't believe it was anything so mundane. There could never be leniency, not for these crimes, and Dr. Lecter was well aware of that.

There was a sigh of relief that filled the courtroom when it was announced. It spilled over, through the doors into the hallway and then outside and down the steps, through the city, the state, beyond. Everyone was jubilant or more soberly contented, happy to see an end, everyone but Will.

He cornered Jack, pulled him into a vacant office on the main floor.

"A quick finish to the trial now and then…back to the Institution? It doesn't make sense." Will was pacing; Jack watched patiently. "I think he wants to get back…back to his contacts there. Pleading _not _guilty, this trial could go on…for months. He wants it over with."

"Will, we've questioned Dr. Chilton's staff thoroughly. We don't know where Dr Lecter is getting his information from or if it's all just extrapolation. He's a brilliant mind. We all know this. He can conclude a lot given very little."

"That still doesn't explain the new plea."

"Maybe he's tired of the proceedings. A trial of this magnitude is exhausting."

"What else does he have to do with his time? He gains nothing by pleading guilty. We all know that guilty is a…foregone conclusion but…there's always a chance at a dismissal on a technicality, slim but... Now he has_ no_ chance. And he's enjoying the courtroom drama. He's reliving his most powerful moments. It's like a celebration of his achievements. Have you been watching him?"

Jack nodded.

"So why end it early? He's up to something, Jack."

Will looked to his boss to fix this but realized that they were both helpless to do anything except wait to see what Hannibal was capable of.

It was small consolation for Will to discover that Jack was concerned too, though he tried to hide it behind a mild and resigned smile.

"You've still got a few weeks left of your vacation," said Jack. "Enjoy them."

It was meant pleasantly, but sat ominously in the stale air after he walked out of the room.

* * *

Tim surprised Will, showed up Monday night at the house in Virginia after dinner.

"So what's the scoop? Hannibal tired of the show?"

"I don't know."

"Looks like I'll be back in Kentucky by the weekend."

"Tim, I'm suspicious of his motives. I…"

"Got a cold beer?" He didn't wait to hear the rest, walked a direct path to the fridge, dropping his bag on the living room floor on the way.

Will snagged him by the jacket as he walked past, hauled him around and pulled him in tightly. Tim didn't put a fight, let Will drag him upstairs. He came down for his beer later. Had another one at 3am, wide awake in the dark, shaking off another nightmare. Will followed right behind this time, down to the kitchen, sat across from him.

"What is it, Tim?"

"I'm thirsty."

"The nightmare. Is it the same every night? Different?"

Tim shrugged. "Surrounded by psychiatrists and psychologists, and if I remember correctly you have a Psychology degree, and you're telling me you don't recognize classic symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? I don't want to talk about my nightmares. It's boring."

Will couldn't argue; it'd be hypocritical. He'd said the same thing before concerning his. But now he could see his own reticence for what it was, reflected back at him in Tim's, it was avoidance not boredom. He didn't like to talk about his nightmares because they disturbed him, even in the daylight. Why wouldn't Tim be the same? He changed tack. "Different sufferers; different triggers. What's yours?"

"Being hammered with questions."

Tim downed his last mouthful of beer and went back to bed. He was gone before the alarm went off at 6am.

* * *

The courtroom was mostly empty the next day. It was just wrap-up, a formality of procedure. Tim didn't show up Tuesday night. Wednesday after dinner, Will got in his car and drove back to Baltimore to the hotel that was housing the Marshal's SOG team. Will had the front desk call his room; Tim told them to send him up.

The door was propped open with the deadbolt. Will pushed it open quietly, closed it and locked it, found Tim sprawled on his stomach on the bed, drinking.

"I hope you're here for sex," Tim mumbled, chin on his arm. "I could use some right now."

"Tim, sex and drinking don't solve problems."

Tim grinned. "They sure help."

"All they do is mask it for a short while. And you know it. What are you doing?"

"Drinking, and hoping for some sex."

There was a time and a place for solving problems and Will hoped it would present itself soon. He took off his glasses and joined Tim on the bed, flattened himself across his back. "Why do _you_ get your own room?"

"There's always an odd man out. I've managed to wake the guys up in the middle of the night often enough that they don't bother fighting me for it anymore."

"Have you considered therapy?"

"Have _you _considered therapy?"

"My therapist was the cause of most of my problems."

"Mmm. You should try drinking and sex."

"I have. It's been great for my problems – not so good for yours."

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you."

Will pushed Tim onto his back and pulled off his shirt, passed his hand over the tattoo, the Pashto symbol for peace, or at least the beginnings of hope for it. He wondered when it had ended, that particular hope. There seemed to be no end to the horror, not that Will could imagine anyway, and he was good at imagining.

* * *

The trial of the decade ended early and without drama. Tim went home to Kentucky; Hannibal Lecter was incarcerated indefinitely at the Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane.

Will went home alone to try and enjoy the last two weeks of his vacation. He didn't try to call Tim each time he thought about him. He went to the range daily to practice, though.

He was interrupted near the end of his break, Jack Crawford knocking on his door early one morning.

"I need you to come with me."

"Why?"

Jack pressed his lips tight, looked at the dogs mingling around his legs, a long breath in, a long breath out. "Two more bodies have been discovered."

"The Chess Master?"

"So it would appear."

"I was…hoping I was wrong."

"We all were."

"Where?"

"Baltimore. The same location as Hannibal Lecter's first recorded murder."

"Well…there's a message there."

"I would like you to come read it and tell me what it says."

* * *

xxxxxxxxx

**Author's Note:** I don't think you're actually allowed to change a plea mid-trial. I think they'd have to declare a mistrial and start again? Does anyone know for sure?


	23. Chapter 23

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Three**

"Do you see the suit he's wearing?" Will pointed at the white king, aimed the question at Jack Crawford.

"Yes."

"You don't need me to read this message. He's…angry at Hannibal. I told you he was likely a former patient. Let's just hope he doesn't start re-enacting the Chesapeake Ripper's crimes. Imagine the press."

"Do you think that likely?"

Will forgot about the blue latex gloves, rubbed his hands down his face, stopped halfway and jerked his head back. "God, I hate the smell of these things."

"Do you think it likely that he'll escalate?" Jack repeated his question anxiously.

Will's shoulders drooped, discouraged. "No. He's…very proud, our Chess Master. He will stick to his own style…methods. It's six weeks since Georgia, almost exactly, isn't it?" He continued in a quiet monotone, talking for his own benefit. "The flaying is neat this time, the paint dry when he was moved and…beautifully done." He turned to Jack. "Does this look like he took extra care to you? It does to me. This white king is his best yet. If it weren't for the face… I almost want to check Hannibal's cell to make sure he's not missing – the resemblance is striking. He's taller than the others, on purpose. He's traded his father, or whoever the model was for the first three kings, for Hannibal."

The room was in a neglected part of Baltimore, old industrial, the building dilapidated. A truck went past on the street outside and the single-pane windows rattled in harmony, a trail of dust fell slowly from the rafters and added some texture to the chess board and the painted victim. Will took his mind back over a decade, recreated the Chesapeake Ripper's scene in this very spot. Hannibal Lecter stood here, he thought to himself, and cut out someone's kidney.

"He's taking back control. He's showing us that he's controlling things, not Hannibal. Was this location ever made public?"

"No."

"Well, obviously they're communicating then. They have to be communicating, somehow. Maybe indirectly. We need to…"

Jack cut him off. "Dr. Chilton is cooperating."

Disdain for the statement. "Dr. Chilton's cooperation is not reassuring me. I…don't trust that man."

"You don't like him."

"That's beside the point. I don't trust him. His motivation for his work has always been recognition of his achievements over a quest for knowledge. He loves the...limelight. He loves to publish and this would make a great article. I can just imagine the summary in the table of contents." Will moved his hands through the air dramatically, said, "Dr. Chilton's startling discovery that his former patient is the Chess Master eclipsed by a connection revealed with the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal Lecter." He dropped his hands. "…who is _conveniently_ incarcerated in his facility. Can't you see the stars in his eyes? Is he conducting sessions with Hannibal?"

"He's taken on Dr. Lecter's case personally."

Will huffed angrily. "Perfect."

"Alright." Placating. "We have agents running an independent investigation at the Institution."

"Good. _Good."_

"Shall I leave you to it?"

"There's no need. It's obvious what he's doing here."

"We _need _a lead."

Will was staring at the white king.

"Will, we need a lead. I need something."

"Well, you're not going to find it here. Let me…talk to Hannibal again."

"What will that do?"

"He knows who's doing this." Will's attention skittered from Jack to the room to the chess game to the player to the king and back. He grimaced. "And because…this," a gesture at the bodies, "is disrespectful. He just might be feeling cooperative. You don't _diss_ Hannibal Lecter…and get away with it."

* * *

"He's mocking you." Will had his head tilted slightly, angled away, as if avoiding staring into a bright light.

A shrug in minute detail. "To whom are you referring?"

"Your…ex-patient, your ex-admirer, the Chess Master."

Hannibal turned away and took two precise steps and turned again and sat on his cot. He brushed something offensive, out of place, from the front of his prison jumper. "I was hoping, as an old friend, that this was a social call."

"Help me catch him. He deserves it for desecrating your crime scene."

"Why, Will, would I help, assuming I could?"

"Satisfaction."

Hannibal looked at Will like a teacher at a young and naïve student, disappointment and patience, waved an arm to showcase his cell. "Look at everything I have. Who would not be satisfied with this?"

"Alright, what do you want? I…can't get you out."

"Books."

"Books. Okay, I'll see what I can do." Will pinched the bridge of his nose, moving his glasses up his face briefly. "Hannibal, as an old friend, I…I have to ask. How did you know…about Tim?"

A slight turn to his head was all the indication Hannibal gave that he was interested in the question.

Will pushed on. "I know you were in communication with Frederick Hayes…somehow…and likely the Chess Master as well. But no one knew about the Marshals' involvement. It was kept out of the papers, out of the reports…"

"To how many psychiatrists, psychologists, other specialists have you been referred?"

Will stared, puzzled by the question, but answered, "Dozens."

"Many of my own patients were referrals."

Will waited patiently, knowing there was more to come.

"Most psychiatrists, Dr. Chilton, for example, even Dr. Bloom, I am sure, myself too, will refer a patient on to a colleague should they arrive at an impasse in their treatment."

"Who? Who did you refer him to?" Will approached the glass barrier, so close.

"_To whom,_ Will. Grammar is what separates our language from pidgin, from mere grunts and noises."

Will was now right up to the barrier, corrected his sentence, repeated,_ "To whom_ did you refer him?"

"Indulge me and remind me again – why would I tell you?"

"Books."

Hannibal stood and walked up to the glass wall, nose not even an inch from Will's.

"I know virtually nothing on the subject of snipers. Perhaps something on the training and use of those so skilled in the recent Afghanistan War?"

Will understood how the fly felt in the spider's web. "Not until you give me something."

"But will you provide me with my entertainment if I do?"

Will shut his eyes, nodded quickly. "Yes."

"I trust you." Hannibal turned and took a few steps back. "I referred a patient a number of years ago – his name escapes me and unfortunately my records are destroyed – who was becoming aggressive and rude. I felt I'd gone as far with him as I was able." He turned again and studied Will's eager face. "You and I are more alike than you realize, Will. We share much the same opinion of Dr. Chilton."

"Rude?" Will saw it all then, the maestro at work. "You passed him on to Dr. Chilton. You _knew _then what he was. Were you hoping he would rid the world of your least favorite colleague? Maybe even get caught in the process?"

"One can only hope, Will, and guide." A smile. "Instead, they seemed to get along. But I can find some small consolation in knowing that Dr. Chilton was clearly unable to cure my former patient of his psychopathic tendencies."

"Clearly."

"Books."

"Books."

* * *

It was a bad time of day to be in a hurry. Will left a message at Quantico, pushed through a few lights that were on the red side of amber, crawled his way around the ring road in DC to avoid the worst of the traffic in the core. He was in Jack Crawford's office in less than two hours, arriving in one piece by some miracle.

It was the first real lead they had.

Jack's assistant explained that he was in meetings with FBI heavies from DC so Will waited in Jack's office, leaning forward in a chair, elbows on his knees, hands flat up under his glasses covering his eyes.

He was picturing Tim, kept seeing him behind his eyelids in vivid imagery, drowned in white, serious and playing chess. He would have preferred naked and laughing but he couldn't always control the feed to his imagination.

It took him then to his conversation with Hannibal. The promise of books on the specific subject of Afghanistan snipers felt like a betrayal. He was offering up Tim in trade for the Chess Master. It sounded melodramatic and he growled in anger at his lack of choices. He was happy when Jack strode into the room, chasing away the unease. He stood abruptly.

"Will. What do you have?"

"The Chess Master _is_ Hannibal's former patient, but…he's saying he doesn't recall the man's name."

Jack shut his eyes and shook his head. "I will never forgive myself for the slip in attention that allowed his records to be destroyed."

Will stopped, his ready speech knocked aside by the shock of a confession of fallibility from Jack Crawford. "You can't…blame yourself for anything that Hannibal Lecter orchestrated. The man is a genius – a monster and a genius."

"The best we can do is not enough."

"Don't. Don't think that way. He's…leading this game. We can only play catch-up. He's had lead position in the poles from the start."

Jack almost laughed. "Will, are you using a NASCAR analogy?"

Will shrugged, an apology. "This is the United States and we are in Virginia and...I had to race through traffic to get here."

A noise halfway between a huff and a murmur of agreement escaped from Jack. "So, did he give you anything we can work with?"

"He said...he said that he referred the patient on…to Dr. Chilton."

A look of surprise, then Jack gathered his scattering thoughts, said, "And you believe him?"

"Hannibal Lecter doesn't lie," said Will. "He conceals, manipulates, misleads. Somehow I think lying would seem…plebeian to him, like scratching in the dirt – not worth his time."

Jack walked quickly behind his desk and picked up his phone. "The Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane, Dr. Chilton's office." He brought up a hand, tapped his lips with his fingers thoughtfully, waiting, spoke tersely to the assistant, "I don't care what important meeting he's in, tell his secretary to interrupt him."

* * *

Tim stared at the chess board and contemplated his next move. He had options and he considered them patiently and calmly.

He'd built a career on patience and calm – that and an aversion to panicking. They were the traits that made him stand out in his squad, made him first pick from the ranks of specialists for promotion to sergeant, got him past the screening for sniper school, and helped him through Ranger training before that. His personality had been pounded and shaped by being the smallest of four brothers running wild and unsupervised. He was trampled, pummeled, in turns ignored and picked on. He learned to stay low, put on a brave face no matter what, go with the flow, keep quiet and tough it out. Will was right – there was never a mother to cry to.

He and his brothers were feral, factious, frequently on a reckless adventure that started with a dare from one of the older two, boredom and a cry for attention, trickling down, oldest to youngest, until they were all involved. The stupidest thing they did was swim across the Ohio River - often. The last time they attempted it, Greg, the oldest, backed out and the second, Paul, taunted and pleaded in turns, convincing the younger two to join him and alienating Greg. There was a fist fight on the bank of the river and Greg turned and left them and Paul was livid, screaming insults. In the end only three of them went in; only two of them came out. Tim was panicked in the river that day. Panicking didn't help anything.

He was angry at his older brother for a long time after, but to be fair to Greg, he had never backed out before, just maybe that day he had finally grown up.

Greg had led the way when they hitchhiked and walked across the state, determined to see the Pacific Ocean. They'd almost made it to the Indiana state line when some trucker handed them over to a Trooper who took them home. They'd been gone two days and no one had reported them missing and the neighbors weren't particularly pleased to see them back. Greg was twelve and the youngest, Christopher, was seven. The trooper waited six hours until after well after midnight for someone responsible to show up at the house then finally admitted defeat and left.

And it was Greg's idea to play chicken on the railway bridge. Tim was particularly proud that day – he'd lasted the longest before the oncoming train, scrambling finally down onto the trusses and hanging on underneath listening to the screaming curses from the other three as the freight cars passed inches overhead, eyes shut tight against the bits of dust shaken down amid the roaring and clacking.

There were so many close calls, but the river was the marker, everything else was leading up to or away from it. If Greg hadn't backed out, if Greg and Paul hadn't argued, if Tim and the youngest, Christopher, had balked standing on the bank that spring afternoon when the Ohio was swollen from the rains and the remains of the winter runoff, maybe the game would've ended differently for them.

Life was a bit like chess, you had to think a few moves ahead, be daring _and_ smart.

They drifted apart after that. Greg joined the Marines, Tim signed the papers at the recruiting office the minute he turned eighteen and purposely went Army to put more distance between them all, and Christopher got into drugs and disappeared.

The end.

He didn't think about his brothers often – life runs miles in between and other events and people pushed that day down on the list. But he had time to kill right now and was using it to think about a lot of things.

"Are you ready to make your move?"

Tim focused back on the board. He already knew which black piece needed to be moved to which square – it was decided over thirty years ago in a game played in Moscow – but he wasn't going to make this easy; he wasn't made that way.

"This isn't bullet chess, asshole. And we both know what move I'm gonna make 'cause we both know this game and we both know that black wins. You're gonna lose this and then be pissy that I don't screw up, so why would I wanna hurry it? I'm gonna enjoy watching you lose – even if it's a foregone conclusion. Hey, how about we play a _real_ game, winner take all, you and me – one you don't have a playbook for. I win and you untie me and I pound the shit out of you, proper. You win and you get to sharpen your knife and practice the medieval art of flaying your prisoner."

"Make your move."

Tim made the face. "Are you a pussy? You too scared to play an uneducated, lower-class, ex-Army grunt?"

The Chess Master was a big man. Tim had sized him up quickly – more brawn than brains. _Will would've had that figured from the evidence._ The wry thought went through Tim's head before the fist slammed into it and kicked some stars out of their orbit.

Tim shook his head a few times, clearing it. "It makes you mad, don't it? Knowing that _you_, Mr. Ivy League, can't beat _me _at a real game of chess, knowing a fist to the head is the only way you_ can_ beat me. What a fucking loser. No wonder your dad didn't want anything to do with you."

The next fist arrived and knocked him out cold.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	24. Chapter 24

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Four**

Art let the clock tick over to ten then frowned, narrowed his eyes over at Tim's desk. By his calculations, his deputy was supposed to be back at work yesterday, but the schedule was confused by SOG interrupting the vacation count and maybe Art had it figured wrong. He had given it a day already, happy that Tim appeared to have a life outside of the Marshals Service and the shooting range and the bar. But by the second morning, this morning, he was flipping back and forth between a tiny bit annoyed and a tiny bit concerned. At 10:01 he called Camp Beauregard in Louisiana and had a chat with the head of SOG, confirming dates, then he did the math again, then he stood up and walked over to see Rachel.

"Rachel, you heard from Tim?"

She shook her head, didn't bother looking up.

"Call him at home for me, will you?"

"Why don't you do it?"

"Because," he stretched the word out, "if he sees my name pop up he won't answer 'cause he knows he's supposed to be back at work."

Rachel dropped her annoyed look completely and took up inconvenient concern. "He's supposed to be back now?"

"Yesterday."

She dug around in her purse and pulled out her personal cell phone to call him.

"You have two phones?"

"This one's for Nick and Ma…and Tim. It'll display my name." She raised a hand, whatever. "I've called him on it a few times. He'll answer. He always has his phone on him."

He didn't answer. She left a message, looked up at Art for orders.

"He's just not the type to go AWOL," said Art. "But maybe he's finally learning how to relax." He huffed, looked outside, looked out through the doors to the hallway. "Do you have any idea what he was up to with his time off?"

"I have a hunch."

"And why do I have a hunch you're not going to tell me what your hunch is?"

She smiled. "Give me an hour to call around?"

Art nodded, thoughtful. "Start with that Will Graham fellow. _ I_ have a hunch too."

Rachel stared back blankly, too surprised to cover the truth with a good lie.

"Uh-huh," he said, snapped his fingers at her then turned and headed back to his desk. "You all think I'm so stupid."

Rachel smiled watching Art walk away then dialed the only number she had for Will, an FBI number, and left a message. The receptionist wouldn't contact him or forward her call. "He's doing field work," was all she'd supply. Rachel hung up and dug through her drawer for Tim's apartment keys and told Art she was going to see if he were at home.

* * *

"Dr. Chilton." Jack strode into the office ignoring the hand offered; Will trailed in behind him. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."

"I was going to get in touch with you, actually," the doctor said. "I wanted to stop Agent Graham before he left this morning, but," he shrugged, "he seemed in a hurry."

"We have some questions…"

"I have discovered something of interest, I think," Dr. Chilton interrupted, walked behind his desk, hand on his chin as if deep in thought. "I might have found a link between your current investigation and a former client of mine."

Will looked over and rolled his eyes in disbelief at Jack then said to Chilton, "You've…_just_ discovered this?"

"Yes, this morning while you were interviewing Dr. Lecter I was thinking back on his and my last session. We were discussing a former mutual acquaintance, a patient actually that he referred on to me…" He switched thoughts. "I've long believed that psychopaths have an affinity for each other and I think Dr. Lecter has had more than his share of seriously disturbed patients – of course, it becomes evident _why_ now that we know what he is. My research suggests that psychopaths recognize a like mind and so these particular patients would keep returning."

"Like me?" Will suggested facetiously.

Dr. Chilton ignored him, continued, "This is a theory that has occupied me for some time and, in order to further my research, I've allowed – and maybe wrongly so, but no harm done – some discourse between Lecter and one or two of his former patients that I've had growing suspicions about. Yesterday I came across this." He held up a handwritten note. "It's correspondence between Dr. Lecter and… Well, I'll get to that in a moment. I think that Dr. Lecter has been encouraging – I don't know what else to call it. I'll have to give it some thought for my paper, the exact phrasing for the particular influence that…"

"Dr. Chilton, this is…all very interesting but can you get to the point, please?"

The doctor graced Will's outburst with a dramatic look of patience and condescension, smiled and said, "I have reason to believe that this former patient of both mine and Dr. Lecter's _is_ the Chess Master." He held out the note, smiled smugly as Jack took it from him. "Of course, I want full rights to any academic publication on the psychiatric implications of their – what would I call it – their _peculiar_ relationship."

* * *

"Tell me you're not buying into his 'I just discovered' bullshit! I'm beginning to think possibly Dr. Chilton shows...sociopathic tendencies." Will walked beside Jack back to the car, angry and agitated. "How long do you think he's been sitting on his _suspicions?"_

"Will," Jack had much the same look of patience for his profiler as Dr. Chilton had earlier, but without the condescension, "we can't prove any intent. Let's just move forward with this. I think he's cooperating now."

"Cooperating only because we're onto him. I promise you, we'll find some_ discourse_ between Hannibal and Frederick Hayes, too."

"It would explain a lot."

"This is why I detest any political appointments. I bet I could guess whose campaign he padded to get that job if I bothered to waste the time thinking about it."

"And whose political campaign would you guess I padded?"

Will snorted. "Are you…getting sensitive, Jack? I thought that was my job."

"Now who's getting sensitive?"

Will grinned. They were excited to finally be moving forward.

The ride back to Virginia was quiet after Jack made a rapid string of phone calls; both men were thinking ahead.

Finally Will said, "He's choosing his next victims. He's hunting...today – right now."

"We have a name."

"How long before…"

"The team is on it. We'll have an address soon enough."

"It's funny how urgent it seems now, now that we have something, when it was equally as urgent three months ago but didn't feel it."

Jack didn't respond.

"Can't this guy drive any faster?"

* * *

Tim came around slowly, cheek pressed into the cold floor, alone, thankfully. He lifted his head and gritted his teeth against the stiffness in his neck, the throbbing in his jaw and through his skull, righted himself and shuffled backward to lean against a wall. It was much like the first time he came to in this room only his jaw didn't hurt then. Drugs, he figured. Some kind of drug – he remembered a thick tongue and a thicker head the first time. He remembered someone coming up behind him in the parking lot of his apartment, a big man, big enough to subdue and carry his victims easily. So now Tim could answer Will's questions of the how and the where. It was more mundane than anyone figured. Abduction was rarely elegant though – simple and brutal worked. Why mess with it?

But how had he found him? Tim hadn't arranged a meeting, hadn't given away any personal information. They'd chatted a bit online – he assumed it was the same person. It had to be. The board he was presented with when the Chess Master finally came for him and introduced himself was the game precisely laid out that they'd been playing online, six steps beyond the last move from the last victims in Georgia. So how had he tracked down Tim's name, his address? The question ran loops, had run loops since he regained consciousness the first day. The only conclusion he could come to was that Will was right – the Chess Master was in communication somehow with Hannibal Lecter. But then how did Hannibal Lecter know? And there was the other side of the loop that chased the tail of the first part.

When the angry throbbing in his head had dulled to an ache, Tim explored the room again. It was damp and chilly and completely dark and he could only feel his way along the walls, awkwardly with his hands and feet bound, shuffle-hopping with his back to the wall, fingers exploring. It had the dimensions and the feel of a cold storage space, cinder block, no windows, at least not that he'd found yet, the outline of a door but it was solid and there was no handle on the inside. Did he keep all of his victims like this? Will had described every detail of the case to him that drunk afternoon at the bar, but there was no mention of any considerable time passed between the abductions and the murders – each was presumed killed within a day or two. And each of the victims was wealthy. Not Tim though, he'd never had much money. He was an anomaly in the killer's pattern. And that brought the connection back to Hannibal Lecter again. There was no other plausible explanation for why he was the one stuck in this shitty little room.

_Fucking Hannibal Lecter. _Tim promised himself then that he'd pay a visit to fucking Hannibal Lecter in his shitty little room in Baltimore once he got out of this mess.

Panic knocked again and Tim ignored it. He would get an opportunity to get the upper hand, but it would have to be when the Chess Master was with him, in the other room where he gave him food and they played out their game. Tim didn't understand that either. The game proved nothing; why continue it? Maybe Will could explain that to him when he saw him.

Damn Will, he thought. His life had been pretty level, routine, before Will. No one could've snuck up on him before. Before, he wouldn't have been distracted thinking about midnight bourbon tasting.

By the end of a week the panic was more persistent. Tim ignored it as best he could and dragged out the game and worked to get anything out of the man holding him prisoner. He waited and watched and baited.

"How long, do you think, before they make the connection between you and Hannibal and break down your door?"

It was the first time Tim had mentioned Lecter; the reaction was immediate and confirming.

"Dr. Lecter couldn't manage to do what I am going to do."

"And what's that? Get caught in under six months?"

Pride brought out the truth. "Kill Will Graham."

Of course – if it involved Hannibal Lecter then the target was Will. Tim was losing the battle with panic this time. How long before someone discovered he was missing and then how long until Will put the clues together to lead him here, and who would believe him when he spoke of his suspicions? No one had believed him so far. Tim had to get out of here before Will came looking, and Will would come looking eventually because _Hannibal Lecter would make sure of it._

"If you manage to kill Will Graham, it's only because Hannibal wants you to."

"No. Graham is his prize and I'm going to take it from him."

"Sure, you keep on believing that. You against Hannibal Lecter – you really think you can outsmart him? Jesus, even in a high-security cell the man's got the one-up. Or with you, it's more like a ten-up. Speaking of, I think I've got my next move worked out." He pointed his chin at the board, all the movement his constraints would allow. "Queen's bishop to…"

The fist came this time expected and Tim moved with it – played dead.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	25. Chapter 25

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Agent Graham?" The young woman at reception ran Will and Jack down in the hall at Quantico, not an easy feat in high-heels considering the purposeful stride in their walks.

"Agent Graham!"

Will stopped, turned.

"I have a message for you from a Deputy at the US Marshals Service," she said, breathless. "They've called three times today trying to get a hold of you."

Will's stomach danced. He avoided eye contact with her, grabbed the pink message slips from her hand. "Uh…thank you, uh…" He left it hanging, hurried after Jack, jogging to catch up. He glanced at the name and number at the top of the first form, then the next two, stopped abruptly and stared when the disappointment hit. It wasn't Gutterson, not Tim; it wasn't his cell number; the calls were from Rachel, all of them.

"Will?"

Will waved Jack on. "I think… I think I need to return this call." He turned and walked back outside and phoned the number.

Rachel picked up at one ring; she was brusque. "Tim's missing."

"Missing? How missing?"

"Will, you're my first phone call for a reason. Is there anything I should know?"

"No. I… He left here with the rest of his team at the finish of the trial last week. He…he still had vacation time."

"He was supposed to be back at work yesterday. I've been by his apartment – no wallet, no phone. Raylan found his keys on the ground by his bike in the garage, mail's piled up. Will, is there any reason why he wouldn't want us looking for him?"

Will tried to make sense of it, walked in a circle, hand worrying curls on his head then running up under his glasses, squeezing the bridge of his nose. What did he know? "Tim wouldn't… Well, he certainly has issues but…not as far as…"

"He's not with you?"

Will stopped pacing and looked out across the parking lot to the training field, eyes unfocused, thinking about the connection between them, the hole it created, growing every day. Then he thought about other connections – between him and Dr. Lecter, Dr. Lecter and Dr. Chilton, Dr. Chilton and the serial killer they were hunting. How did Hannibal know about Tim? Through Dr. Chilton. How did Dr. Chilton know? Through the Chess Master or Frederick Hayes, maybe both. But Will didn't need to know exactly how. He was suddenly certain that the Chess Master was aware of Tim's relationship with the lead profiler at the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit and then he began to worry because he kept company with monsters.

"I think I'd better come to Lexington," he said, hung up and ran to the parking lot.

* * *

"You made good time," said Art, leading Will from the airport terminal to his car. "Who did you run over to catch your flight?"

"Uh, two or three nuns, an old lady with a walker. When did anyone...see Tim last?"

"We were hoping you could tell us. His team leader said they split up at the airport. That's the last anyone saw him or talked to him."

"I haven't heard anything since...the night before that."

Art glanced over at his passenger then back to the road. "I'm a little concerned that you felt the need to get here so fast. What's on your mind, Agent Graham?"

"It's…nothing, I hope. I just… It's hard to shut off from a job like mine. I'm always imagining the very worst scenarios."

Art nodded, not feeling any better. "He's a pretty capable young man."

Will didn't say anything else on the drive to Tim's apartment. Upstairs, he stepped past Art through the door and straight over to the computer table – no wallet, no phone, no keys. "Rachel said that Raylan found his keys downstairs by his bike?"

"That's right."

"Show me."

Will stood looking at the Harley, closed his eyes and ran through the possibilities. "He must've been distracted… He would've come at him from behind. Drugged him, maybe...likely. Tim would've... I've always insisted that he had to be a big man."

Art tried to keep up with the disjointed and one-sided conversation. "Who, Tim?"

"The Chess Master."

"I thought Tim…"

"Wrong guy."

Will walked around to the wall side of the bike, noted the scratches on the gas tank near the logo and on the vance and hines, shut his eyes. "It was knocked over." He saw in his mind the struggle, Tim lifted off his feet, kicking out. "Do you have…any idea how much care Tim takes of this motorcycle? He wouldn't drop it. He just...wouldn't."

Art brought his hands up to his hips. "So you think I should start full-out worrying."

"Yes."

* * *

Will ended the call, dropped his phone hand, discouraged.

"Anything?" Rachel asked, though she could read his expression well enough.

"Nothing. The house…was empty. It appears that it hasn't been occupied for at least a couple of weeks. Jack's got his team on it. They're looking for other residences. The man, unsurprisingly, has money. His father, again, not surprising, was found dead in his pool last year. Drowned. Toxicology came back with," he waved his hands, "...nothing, and he was in excellent health and a very good swimmer. No head trauma…" Will exhaled loudly. "It was ruled accidental death. Clearly…not."

The Marshals were standing around Raylan's desk, waiting for direction. Will couldn't look at them; he had nothing to offer. He took off his glasses and covered his face with his hands.

"I need someplace to think, alone…please."

Art led him into his office, shut the screens, said, "We'll get Tim's photo circulating," and left him.

Burying his face in his hands a second time, Will collapsed into a chair, sweating and cold. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." He was starting to sound like Tim. He tried to calm himself, stood again and walked to the window, opened the blinds and looked out onto the street. He took a breath, another, made the face, then he closed his eyes and crawled into the head of a serial killer.

* * *

_Not a good idea,_ Tim thought, cheek pressed onto the floor, knife edge slicing into his shoulder blade. He hissed involuntarily, gritted his teeth as the blade cut through his shirt and into skin. He had hoped, playing dead, to get the jump on his captor when he unlocked the chain on the chair, had jumped straight up and caught the man under the chin. The two of them collapsed into the table and down onto the floor but with his hands and feet bound Tim had no chance at anything unless he knocked the man out. He'd almost knocked himself out with the force of the contact, skull to jaw. Now the Chess Master was kneeling on Tim's back and demonstrating how it was going to feel to be flayed while still conscious.

He spat blood from where he'd bit his tongue, spoke quietly. "Dr. Lecter would remove the organs of the people he despised, cut them out with a knife and make them watch. Do you think they screamed?" He bent down and said the last in Tim's ear, his breath warm.

"Probably not for very long. It likely would've degraded to moaning pretty quickly."

"You'll be screaming. They all scream."

Tim didn't doubt it. He was having trouble keeping from screaming right now and this was only a demonstration. He gasped in some breath, worked to keep his voice light, unaffected, said, "You're like Hannibal's Mini-Me, the guy in the Austin Powers movies. You ever watch them? Only you're more like a _Maxi_-Me. That kinda sounds like a feminine protection product, doesn't it? You're just a sad copy, a wannabe. Or, maybe you're just so dumb you don't know that skin is an organ too."

The knife paused, for a moment. Tim figured he'd just made the cut longer, taunting the man like he did, but it was worth it.

* * *

_I watch my father's body floating on top of the water in the pool. I don't feel anything now that he's dead; I'm disappointed, not satisfied. There's nothing special about it. I want to try it again, do it better, perfectly._

_My next victim is someone I know, someone who has humiliated me like my father did. The one after that is the dress rehearsal for the scene that I have played out in my head since watching my father bob lifeless in the yard. It's a perfect scene, and it means everything to me that it be perfect. It shows how smart I am that I capture my victims by outwitting them at chess, that I stage it so perfectly. . . I do it again and again. It satisfies. I chose the king, drown him in his arrogance; chose the loser who can't live up, bare his ignorance for the world to see. This is my design._

_How dare they mimic me? It's my design. They've stolen it and I will take it back. _

Will swayed slightly on his feet as he opened his eyes, put a hand out, palm flat on the cool glass of the window. "He's taking it back," he said softly, speaking to his reflection. "But he needs to take something from Hannibal to even it out." An eye for an eye? Not quite, but close. A possession, something Hannibal cherises in his own way. It was obvious when he thought about it. Will sighed, resigned. "He wants to steal me from Hannibal."

Will pulled his phone from his pocket and called Jack then he walked into the Marshals' bullpen so they could hear what he had to say. "Jack, I think he wants to use the cave again – here in Kentucky. He wants to...piss in the corners, so to speak. He's already pissed on Hannibal's first scene…now he's going to lay claim to this one, the one where Hannibal and Frederick Hayes tried to copy him…only he thinks he's going to accomplish what Hayes couldn't. He's going after me…through Tim." He pulled the phone away from his cheek and started giving orders. "We need to find any building, house, shed, cabin, anything near the caves in Carter County that has been recently leased, occupied, I don't know. He's got to be holding him here in Kentucky and he has to have a vehicle. He has to be ready."

A photo and any information gathered came through to the Lexington Bureau from Virginia – Paul Francis O'Keefe, recent address in Maryland. Will finally had a face to compare to his mind's creation. He was blonde instead of brunette, the eyes farther apart, lips fuller. He looked all-American; he played football in college, flunked out, worked for his father. There were two chessboards found in his house, and in the woods in the acreage behind, a wind chime of human skins hanging from a grove of trees.

Will had nailed the psychopath part. He covered his face a third time. "God, I hate my job."

* * *

"You don't know anything."

"Oh, I know quite a bit actually," Tim said, panting through the pain. "I got a good account of you and your kind of crazy from Will Graham." He'd been dragged back down the stairs and dumped in his cell; his back was screaming. He ignored it. "If I remember the list right, you don't like your daddy and you're a princess about it, you're a shitty chess player, you're a rich bitch and you're a bully. Did I miss anything? Hey, did you get cut from the football team? I bet you did. Was it bad marks or do you just suck at everything?"

"Will Graham isn't coming for you."

"Nope, he's not. He's too smart. He'll just send in the FBI tactical team. Point and shoot." Tim said it with confidence but the confidence was shallow, fear building just under the surface.

"It's time to change the schedule." The Chess Master spoke to himself. "It's time." He looked at his captive, a piece of dirt on the floor. "I don't like you."

Tim thought that was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

The door was shut abruptly, locks slid into place, and the room was dropped back into darkness. Tim listened to the footsteps moving away and up the stairs, the front door slamming. He heard an engine turn over, sounded big, a truck maybe, then tires on gravel. So the house was out in the country, likely. He sat as comfortably as he could for a while then worked his way awkwardly to his feet and did the tour of his room again, trying not to panic.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	26. Chapter 26

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Six**

"And what have you done so far, Will, to recover him?"

Alana shuddered. His voice was tinged with pleasure. She studied his face, professional interest, open curiosity, rubber-necking at a car crash. There was nothing but amusement just discernible in the hair-breadth wrinkling of the skin around the eyes, a greedy enjoyment of the torment. Hannibal was the devil, feeding on souls. Today's menu featured Will's soul, wrapped in fear, helplessness, and anticipation of heart-break.

She felt safe staring; Hannibal was completely engrossed in his phone conversation with Will. It was a rare opportunity for a psychiatrist to study an unusual form of psychopathy unhindered, but she was too distracted by her own emotions to take full advantage of it. Still, she was glad that Dr. Chilton was banned from anyone connected with the case at this point, even if it meant that no one was here for disinterested and professional observation this morning. The academic advancement of psychiatry could wait.

They'd been looking for Tim for three days. The Chess Master was clearly out of his routine and no one, not even Will, could anticipate his next move with any certainty. It seemed unlikely to everyone that they'd find the Marshal alive now. The odds were against it.

Alana still hoped Tim might show up, even if Will had given up. She listened while Will spoke about him, about their relationship, grieving. _Consider what you know about him,_ she said, _he might still reappear._ She offered the idea that he might stagger into work one morning having run off on a bar binge to forget about Will and whatever else he clearly had in his past that needed forgetting about. But Will said that wasn't his character, he said Tim would put up an invisible barrier between whatever was bothering him and his duties and get on with it. And Will was usually right about people.

Desperation drove them back to Dr. Lecter – a phone call mediated by Alana, someone Will could trust. There was nothing more they could do to Hannibal, nothing to threaten or coerce him with. He was already serving twenty-four back-to-back life sentences, so he was free to help, or not, but he seemed willing to talk and willing to assist by providing some information this morning. It amused him to do so.

"He's been watching you track him, Will, since the FBI became aware of his existence. And he watched your lover follow you to your hotel and leave in the morning. He has been a wonderful source of information while he attempted to beat me at my own game, as the saying goes. You might want to consider how he would do that." Hannibal turned and smiled at Alana. "It is precisely because he is driven by his pride that I find him so uninteresting. It makes him rather predictable, but useful. You, however, are not predictable, Will. What will you do next? I am giddy with anticipation."

Alana could picture Will's reaction to that statement, a man so desperate to stay out of the limelight forever caught firmly in it. If she pitied anything about him, it was just that. All he wanted was to be left alone and he rarely was, at least, not on his terms.

Hannibal was listening, smiling patiently. He said, "Paul O'Keefe is not satisfied being himself. What skin do you suppose he is wearing when he faces the world?"

His eyebrow twitched in surprise, a small movement. He pulled the phone from his ear and the smile didn't drop. "Run, Will, run," he said softly then nodded to Alana, always the gentleman. "Excuse me for ignoring you, Dr. Bloom, but our mutual friend is like a bloodhound on the scent. He ended our conversation rather abruptly." Amusement again. He set the phone on the tray and pushed it through the barrier to the hallway.

"Is he your friend still, Hannibal, considering everything you've done to him?"

"Oh yes, I believe so. He'll visit again when this is all over." He tilted his head slightly. "You look tired, Alana, and you've changed your perfume. Shalini – it suits you and is especially appropriate considering your surname. Do you wear it for anyone in particular?"

Alana smiled for what was – with Will, with Hannibal. "I'm married to psychiatry, Hannibal. You know that."

"Are you?"

She checked any response, reminded herself that he ate people.

* * *

"Manifestos, check manifestos on flights from Lexington, Louisville, or Cincinnati to Atlanta between these two dates." Will rapid-fired the information to Jack on the phone.

"What are we looking for?" Art was standing next to Will, made himself part of the FBI team's conversation.

"Names of successful people – an alias. It might just be a surname, maybe a first name only or a combination. Go with world class chess players first." To Art he added, "Car rentals – I need a list of all rentals between those dates. Let's start with Lexington."

It didn't take long to get the rental databases. Rachel printed them off and brought the information over to Will then she doubled back and printed out a list of international chess champions and she and he stood comparing names, one with the other. Art stepped up behind them and read over their shoulders, starting from the bottom. He caught it first.

"Karpov – there it is, right there." He reached over and pointed. "Isn't that the name from Tim's report? We're looking for a red Ford Taurus. Read me off the license plate number – I'll get a BOLO out."

"Not the vehicle I was expecting," said Will.

"It's just a matter of time." Art spoke to the room at large, consoling himself.

And it took time. Will found the waiting excruciating. He needed to be doing something. Eventually he stood up and headed for the door.

"Where are you going, Agent Graham?" The scolding came from Art.

"I'm going to look again."

"Where?"

"Carter County. Near the caves."

"And were you planning on walking there?"

"I was hoping to…borrow a car."

Art huffed. "Will, he could be anywhere."

"I have a…a hunch," said Will, hoping; it usually worked with Jack.

"You sound like Raylan." Art blew out a breath and rubbed his bald spot. "Rachel, go with him."

Rachel touched Will's arm. "I'll drive."

"It feels good…to be moving," Will said once they'd cleared Lexington and were heading east. "Even if it might be in the wrong direction. I don't like being on both sides of an investigation but…it always seems to turn out that way."

"It's a hazard of the job, I guess, considering what they expect of you. Tim explained some of it to me," she said when he looked over, puzzled. "He doesn't like it."

"What's it to him?" It came out sharply and Will felt a bit peevish saying it. It was difficult to be level-headed at this point.

"He's a hard man to reach but I think you've come closer than anybody. Don't let up if it's important to you. He'll cave eventually." Rachel grimaced at the expression after it escaped her lips. "Do you think we'll find him?"

It seemed a ridiculous question but Will knew she wanted to add the descriptor 'alive' and couldn't bring herself to say it.

"No." That was his first reaction, then, "Yes," because that's what he had to believe, then, "I don't know." _You never get used to it,_ he thought, _never._ "Once a killer starts deviating from his pattern, his design, it's…it's scary. Honestly, I have no idea what we'll find."

He was glad she was driving.

* * *

The car was spotted later that day at a horse farm outside the city limits. Art and Raylan arrived with a warrant, already signed and just waiting for an address. Now they had an address – a rambling multi-million dollar estate home, the owner living alone, recently divorced. The smell of rotting flesh hit the team as soon as they entered the house. Raylan followed the odor down the stairs, Art hurrying behind him. A freezer-full of meat sat oozing on the basement floor. Raylan stepped over the pile and opened the lid on the freezer nearby, still plugged in and running.

"Damn." He looked bewildered, not particularly upset.

Art felt it safe to peer in, stared trying to figure out what exactly he was looking at. He wiped a hand over his face in relief. "Holy shit. Well, I think we're on the right track." He waved over one of the County Sheriff's men, nodded at the freezer. "Wanna bet this is the owner of the house? Find a photo. And someone get on the DMV and find out what kind of car this guy drives and get the license plate number."

* * *

"Okay, I got it." Rachel hung up. "They found the Taurus and a guy covered in white paint in a freezer. It's not Tim," she added quickly, handed Will her notepad and pulled back onto the road. "They think he's traded vehicles. We're now looking for a silver Ford, brand new Super Duty." She glanced over to see if Will understood, answered the question on his face. "Big pick-up."

"Right."

"Will, we passed one a mile back."

She turned the car around and stepped on the gas.

* * *

When the door opened, Tim put every bit of the force of his rage into a standing two-legged drop kick. He didn't think he was going to get another opportunity – it was a move of desperation. Tim's bound feet, legs coiled and released, caught his captor in the stomach full force and knocked the wind out of him in a rush and he buckled and collapsed. Tim didn't fare much better. The difference in mass was considerable and for Tim it was like hitting a solid wall. He bounced off and landed on the floor hard, screamed for a breath and then scuttled, still bound tightly, to his tormentor, pulled his legs over the man's head, sandwiching his neck between his knees and squeezing as hard as he could.

Bull strength pulled Tim almost completely off the floor as the Chess Master tried to stand and put distance between himself and the attack. The man struggled to breathe, fell back to his knees, mouth gaping for air. He reached to his side and pulled a knife and wrestled for a grip on the hilt then swiped at Tim's face. Tim twisted clear, growled, tightened the vice. The knife came up a second time aiming for leg and Tim twisted again, and the blade sliced through his pant leg into flesh. He screamed a curse and held on and the knife came up again then Paul O'Keefe's head exploded outward, blood and tissue spraying the floor, the wall. Tim shut his eyes and felt the drops splash across his face and the body dropped hard on top of him.

"Fuck!" Tim yelled, pain and surprise and fear, rolled and kicked to get out from underneath the dead weight and wriggled his legs free. "Fuck!" he yelled again and struggled frantically against the ties on his wrists.

He felt a hand on his leg and panicked, finally panicked, kicked out and tried to move away.

"Tim, stop!"

_Will._ Tim rolled again, opened his eyes, focused. _Will. _

"Tim, it's okay. It's over. _God._ Stop moving! Stop. Let me untie you."

Will was holding his sidearm, waving it recklessly.

"Put that fucking thing away." Tim flinched, breathing hard. "Jesus Christ, you're gonna hurt somebody!"

"Okay. Okay." Will slid his gun into his holster, stepped over Tim, slid a hand across his chest and through his hair then knelt behind him and started tugging at the restraints. His hands were shaking. "I need a knife or something. God, these are tight."

"Borrow his, for fuck's sake! He won't mind."

"Right."

Another step over and back and Will sawed at the ropes then moved down to work at the ties on Tim's ankles, dragging a hand possessively over Tim's leg as he did. Tim fumbled with the remains of the ropes around his wrists, fingers aching, shoulders aching. He kept twitching his eyes over to the body.

Rachel appeared at the door. She'd been yelling for Will, but both men were so caught up in the action that her voice hadn't registered with either.

"Goddammit! You just disappeared!"

Will wasn't certain whom she was speaking to. She hurried over and helped Tim with the ropes and wrapped her arms around him and sobbed, once. "Asshole," she whispered. "No more chess for you. You're sticking to firearms. It's less dangerous." She took his face in her hands, looked at him seriously. "Are you okay?"

"I'm thirsty. I'm really thirsty. And I want_ the fuck_ out of here." He struggled to his feet, Rachel and Will finally helping him. His gaze shifted again to the body then to Will. "I had him. _I had him!_ You didn't… _You_ didn't have to shoot him! I had him!"

"Tim," said Rachel, soothing. "Calm down. It's over."

He stumbled past them to the door and up the stairs.

* * *

"I'm okay. I said, _I'm okay!_ Fuck off! I just need a shower."

Will stood outside of the crush of law enforcement personnel, far from everyone, leaned against Art's car and watched Tim push everyone away, watched Art finally take hold of his arm and forcefully lift him from the step and march him to the waiting ambulance – a few whispered words, a stern look and Tim went meekly enough. He shot a glance at Will, one quick expression of anger before the doors to the back of the vehicle shut and it started on its way.

Rachel had walked over beside Will when Art took control, was witness to the look and turned surprised to Will. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing."

"Well then what did you do?"

"I…pulled the trigger. He did me a favor, teaching me how to shoot. But I don't think that's what he wanted."

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	27. Chapter 27

**Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Seven**

"They're keeping him the night," Rachel said, walking across Will's path when he entered the hospital doors. She put out a hand and stopped him when he tried stepping around her. "Are you okay?"

"I've been asked that question," Will surveyed the room while he did a mental count, "…at least a dozen times tonight."

"Well then, you should have an answer worked out by now so it won't take too much effort to tell me."

He let himself pause a moment, the warmth in her face drawing him in. He let himself smile. He let himself feel his own feelings briefly. He made his confession to her. "I'd shoot him again if I could. Usually…I have some pity for them." He shook his head, made the face, dropped it quickly thinking that Rachel might recognize it and think he was stealing it from Tim. "But not this time. I'm…mostly worried that I'll start sympathizing with the victims' families too much now. I don't think I could handle that. Not…that and everything else."

Will looked past her down the hall as he spoke, down to the floor when he'd finished, around the room again while she considered his response.

"Thank you," said Rachel. "I'll bet that's not the answer everyone else got."

"Probably not the one I'll give Tim either, if he ever asks."

"Don't count on it."

He chuckled. "You know him well."

"Only compared to some."

"Do you think he'll see me?"

"Don't give him the choice." She stepped aside finally and pointed down the hall. "Fifth door on the right. Art's talking to him."

Will didn't hurry down the hall, still deciding if he should even stay and see Tim or go straight to the hotel room, take some painkillers and sleep on it, all of it. Part of him, the rational part, felt it better to allow the emotions to self-level before facing Tim's forced indifference; part of him, the other part, wanted to trace the outline of the familiar face – needed to trace the outline. He put on the face again for himself only, raised eyebrows and a grin for comedy. It didn't feel stolen; it felt easy. _It should be so easy. _The thought went through his head as he pushed open the door.

"…not coming in tomorrow, you're taking the _week_ off. Longer, in fact, and I guarantee they're going to insist that you talk to someone about this." Art was on a roll, a finger pointed sternly pinning Tim to the bed by suggestion. "I'm sure it's in the USMS guidelines somewhere – what to do when your deputy is abducted and held prisoner by a raging psychopath who wants a chess partner. First step, hospital; second step, United States Marshals Service approved shrink stop."

If he were feeling better about everything, Will would've laughed out loud at the look on Tim's face, another expression to add to the collection he was cataloguing. Will did manage a smile, an unbidden guest on his face which left soon after it arrived.

Art stopped talking when Tim looked past him to the door and frowned. The Chief turned to see what the distraction was.

"Special Agent Graham, I can't believe you're done writing up all the reports for this shooting." Art stood up and walked to the door and shook Will's hand. "Thank you for your hunches – they seem pretty alright to me since they got Tim, here, back in one piece, more or less." He leaned in for a comic whisper. "Between you and me, I'd like to get this sarcastic little shit permanently out of my hair, but this isn't quite the way I had in mind it happening – being skinned alive by some crazy." Art was attempting to get a laugh from Tim, looked back at him and sighed, his attempts clearly failing. "Well, it's been exciting, but do me a favor and keep your psychos to yourself next time. And especially, don't call asking to work with Tim again – it's not happening. I'll answer the FBI's request in advance. No."

He paused a beat, then, "Ask for Raylan, he'd even drive the crazies crazy."

Again a pause, another glance back in hope, a barely perceptively shrug in defeat.

"Well, I gotta go make a few phone calls," said Art. "Excuse me a minute."

Tim started talking as soon as the door closed, the words a little slower and deeper than usual, drugged-down. "I can't do this. I told you. Go on back to Virginia."

"I'm…going. Tomorrow morning. I came to see if you were alright."

"I'm fine, thanks."

Will nodded. "Come have coffee sometime – you, me and Hannibal."

Tim snorted, grinned finally. "Yeah, alright, as long as you put some bourbon in it."

Will turned to leave, turned back. "Tim…"

"I don't do this."

"I know. You don't do this. But if you fall on your head and have a massive change in personality… Tim, it doesn't get better than this."

Tim sat chewing on his lip, wouldn't take up the challenge. Will made the face one last time and left.

* * *

Will sat on the chair and laid his head in his hands supported by his elbows on his knees; Hannibal sat on the cot, hands folded in his lap, still, silent.

"You said…once," Will spoke like he used to speak in Hannibal's office all that time ago, "…you said that I needed to be alone."

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, waited.

Will sat up again, took a deep breath that cleared nothing. "I think maybe you're right."

"Be careful, Will, your self-pity is surfacing and it's not a good life raft to be clutching."

Will snorted, a wry grin. "I can always count on you…for bluntness."

"For friendship, too, I hope."

"You're kidding me, right?"

Hannibal smiled. "How did it feel killing a second time?"

Will grimaced, stood up and paced the front of the cell. "A lot better than shooting Garret Jacob Hobbs."

"And why is that?"

"You tell me. That's why I'm here."

"The need to protect loved ones is a primal instinct. I suspect it has little association with the rational parts of our thinking."

"Yeah. Did you imagine killing your sister's murderers when you hunted?"

Hannibal's smile was less easy. "We are discussing you, Will, not me."

"I'm sorry. I'm the patient, aren't I?"

"A friend, I thought?"

It was an uncomfortable idea being friends with a psychopath, but not outside the realm of possibility and Will couldn't dismiss it. There was something there. If he squinted hard he could make out an outline of what a relationship should be and could be and would be if the man weren't a convicted murderer. And with Tim as well there was a hint of what could be, what should be, what would be if Tim would only allow it. Maybe he was a draw to people he could never plumb the depths of, never reach the center of. Like Hannibal attracted psychopaths, maybe he attracted the impossible. This friendship certainly was impossible.

"Sure, a friend. Why not?"

A plastic smile. "Why not, indeed? I look forward to our visits."

Like he was addressing his subjects.

* * *

"Oh, I love this song," she said. "Have you heard it?"

She started singing along with the jukebox, _I want a cowboy in a Cadillac._ Tim wished he had Raylan's card to give her if she really wanted a cowboy – not that Raylan would thank him for the referral, she was a bit young – but a Town Car was close enough to a Cadillac and he had the hat and boots.

Her singalong voice faltered after the chorus and she continued with her life history.

"And anyway, I didn't want to follow him down to wherever Army Base whatever in nowhere-interesting, USA, so I told him he could keep his ring and I moved here to Lexington. I like the city. I'm a city girl at heart – I just knew it growing up. Everyone could tell I wasn't for sticking around that town. So now I'm working at the Arby's and I'm saving up to take a trip out west to California."

She took another sip of her drink, something orange, and listed slightly toward Tim, slipped off her stool and Tim caught her and pushed her back on her perch.

"You ever been to California?" she slurred in his ear as he replaced her at her spot at the bar.

Tim reached for his glass, finished his beer in one go and got up off his own stool and headed for the exit. He'd had enough. Sometimes shutting them out wasn't possible.

Rachel was standing at the door when he got to it. He was surprised to see her and almost smiled until he recognized the pose, the hands on her hips giving away her purpose. She looked like business. He felt immediately guilty for something, wondered what, asked her.

"What?" It came across churlish.

She pointed at a table and Tim limped over to it, compliant, sat down and leaned forward on his elbows, his back still sore and bandaged and healing.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel said, not aggressive, soft. "You just got out of the hospital this morning. I was expecting to find you at home. No, actually, more like I was hoping to find you at home."

"It hurts less leaning on a bar than slouching on my couch."

She huffed, ordered a beer and huffed again when Tim ordered a bourbon shot.

"Will called me to see how you were doing."

Tim slid his eyes to the door. "Yeah?"

"Jesus. I would never have pegged you as a coward."

"What'd you say?" She had Tim's attention now.

"You heard me." She stared him down.

His eyes dropped finally and he pouted and scratched carefully at the spot where the stitches in his leg rubbed against his jeans.

The girl from the bar appeared suddenly, standing hip out and glaring at Rachel. "Excuse me, but I was here first."

"Fuck off!" All of Tim's frustration came out in the two words and she stepped back under the force of it.

"Fuck you!" she said loudly, the indignant tone of surety.

Rachel kept an eye on her as she staggered back to the bar then arched an eyebrow. "Charming."

The waiter dropped off their drinks and Tim finished his before Rachel even had a sip. She watched him, waited.

"What?" he said again, churlish again.

"Coward."

"You don't understand shit."

"So tell me."

"No."

"Coward."

"You can fuck off, too." Tim stood abruptly, grimaced, limped out.

He got home before it was decent to go to bed, bypassed the computer and grabbed his bourbon and sat on the couch awhile trying to get comfortable, watched the news long enough to make himself more miserable then switched off and flopped into bed and finished the bottle. He was awake two hours later, sweating and chewing his lip and staring at the corner of the room and wishing he hadn't drunk all the bourbon. He had some horrors to toast.

* * *

Will heard the engine, looked up at the clock. It was late. There shouldn't be anyone coming to his house at this hour. He picked up his gun, a habit picked up from Tim, walked to the front door, hand on the knob, called out after the knock, "Who is it?"

"It's me."

Will opened the door before the sentence was finished. Tim was leaning on it, leaning his forehead on it, and stumbled in.

"Sorry."

Arms out to catch him, but Tim caught himself and backed up. "Was it even fucking locked? Jesus Christ, lock your fucking door!"

"I…" Will didn't bother finishing. "Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm not drunk!" Tim paced past him, angry, and got the dogs riled up. The barking started. Tim turned when he couldn't go any farther, headed back, nose to nose now, finger jabbing at the floor making a point. "Lock your fucking door!"

"I heard you first time. What are you doing here?"

"I can't do this!_ I can't do this!"_

The dogs kept at it. Will spoke softly through the racket.

"You drove all the way to tell me you can't do this? Do what, Tim?"

"This! Whatever it is you think _this_ is. I can't do it! I can't! Do you hear? Do you know why? _Do you know why?"_

Will shook his head.

"What happens next, Will? _What happens next?!"_

Will shrugged, not understanding, and the dogs were still barking and Will still couldn't understand even when Tim answered his own question.

"You take a fucking bullet, that's what! You take a fucking bullet! _For me!_ And then I have to live with it! I can't!" His voice was going hoarse yelling, yelling over the dogs. "I can't live with it! I can't! You fucking don't know! You fucking don't know anything!"

But Will knew, that instant, he knew. He could see it all, the furtive looks, the desperate and hidden meetings, quick, never enough, never quite getting it all out what needed to come out, what was desperate to come out, and then a black night, dark night, night vision, infrared, impersonal, not even a good last look, no chance for saying anything worth anything and even if the chance were there it wasn't going to happen, not there, never there, violence, a reaction, no thought, just sacrifice, no grieving, no touching, no place for it, not then, not later, never.

Don't ask; don't tell.

"I see." Will whispered it through the yelling. "I see, Tim. I see. It's okay. You don't have to do this. I understand. It's okay. You don't have to. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about…" But he didn't know his name. He didn't know anything.

He wanted to cry for him, but he didn't have to, the whispered words snuck through and Tim was sobbing, finally. Will took off his glasses, set them down, and ran both hands through the sweaty, unruly mess of Tim's hair, ran them over his face roughly, wiping at the salty wetness and the memories and the despair, took the keys from Tim's hand, the helmet, tossed them on the couch, pulled him in.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


End file.
